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10 


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C  1975^ 


SOUTHERN   BRANCH 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LIBRARY 

LOS   ANGELES.  CALIF. 


POEMS 


TOGETHER  WITH 


BROTHER  JACOB  and  THE   LIFTED  VEIL 


BY 

GEORGE  ELIOT 


HARPER'S  LIBRARY  EDITION 


29322 


NEW    YORK 
HARPER    &    BROTHERS,    FRANKLIN    SQUARE 

1  885 


CONTENTS. 


PAOR 

POEMS     .     , 1 

BROTHER  JACOB 259 

THE  LIFTED  VEIL 319 


1 
I 


POEMS 


CONTENTS. 


FAOie 

THE  LEGEND  OF  JUBAL, ....  1 

AGATHA, 16 

ARMGART 24 

HOW  LISA  LOVED  THE  KING,           £0 

A  MINOR  PROPHET,           ■        ■       ^                C2 

BROTHER  AND  SISTER,        . 08 

STRADIVARIUS, 72 

A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PARTY, 75 

TWO  LOVERS, ,        .  91 

SELF  AND  LIFE, 92 

THE  DEATH   OP  MOSES, 94 

"SWEET  EVENINGS  COME  AND  GO,  LOVE," 96 

ARION, 97 

"O  MAY  I  JOIN  THE  CHOIR  INVISIBLE,"          .....  99 

THE  SPANISH  GYPSY, .       .  100 


POEMS  OF   GEORGE   ELIOT. 


THE  LEGEND   OF  JUBAL. 

WuEN  Cain  was  driven  from  Jehovah's  land 

He  wandered  eastward,  seeking  some  far  strand 

Ruled  liy  kind  gods  who  asked  no  offerings 

Save  pure  tield-fruits,  as  aromatic  things, 

To  feed  the  subtler  sense  of  frames  divine 

Tliat  lived  on  fragrance  for  their  food  and  wine: 

Wild  joyous  gods,  who  winked  at  faults  and  folly, 

And, could  be  pitiful  and  melancholy. 

lie  never  had  a  doubt  that  snch  gods  were; 

He  looked  within,  and  saw  them  mirrored  there. 

Some  think  he  came  at  last  to  Tartary, 

And  some  to  Ind ;   but,  howsoe'er  it  be. 

His  staff  he  planted  where  sweet  waters  ran. 

And  in  that  home  uf  Cain  the  Arts  began. 

Man's  life  was  spacious  in  the  early  world : 

It  paused,  like  some  slow  ship  with  sail  unfurled 

Waiting  in  seas  by  scarce  a  wavelet  curled; 

Beheld  the  slow  star-paces  of  the  skies. 

And  grew  from  strength  to  strength  through  centuries ; 

Saw  infant  trees  fill  out  their  giant  limbs. 

And  heard  a  thousand  times  the  sweet  birds'  marriage  hymns. 

In  Cain's  young  city  none  had  heard  of  Death 
Save  him,  the  founder ;  and  it  was  his  faith 
That  here,  away  from  harsh  Jehovah's  law, 
Man  Was  immortal,  since  no  halt  or  flaw 
In  Cain's  own  frame  betrayed  six  hundred  years. 
But  dark  as  pines  that  autumn  never  sears 
His  locks  thronged  backward  as  he  ran,  his  frame 
Rose  like  the  orbiJd  sun  each  morn  the  same. 
Lake-mirrored  to  his  gaze ;  and  that  red  brand. 
The  scorching  impress  of  Jehovah's  hand. 
Was  still  clear-edged  to  his  unwearied  eye. 
Its  secret  firm  in  time-fraught  memory. 
He  said,  "My  happy  offspring  shall  not  know 
That  the  red  life  from  out  a  man  may  flow 
1 .5*  A* 


THE   LEGEND   OF  JUI5AL. 

When  smitten  by  his  brother."    True,  his  race 
IJorc  each  one  stamped  \\\wn  his  new-boni  face 
A  copy  of  the  brand  no  wliit  less  clear; 
13ut  every  motlier  lield  that  little  copy  dear. 

Thus  generations  in  glad  idlosse  throve, 

Nor  hunted  piey,  nor  with  each  other  strove ; 

For  clearest  spriiij^s  were  plenteous  in  the  land, 

And  gourds  for  cups;  the  ripe  fruits  sought  the  hand, 

Bending  the  laden  boughs  with  fragrant  gold ; 

And  for  their  roofs  and  garments  wealth  untold 

I;ay  everywhere  in  grasses  and  broad  leaves: 

They  labored  gently,  as  a  maid  who  weaves 

Iler  hair  in  mimic  mats,  and  pauses  oft 

And  strokes  across  her  palm  the  tresses  soft, 

Then  peeps  to  watch  the  poised  bntterfly, 

Or  little  burdened  ants  that  homeward  hie. 

Time  was  but  leisure  to  their  lingering  thought, 

There  was  no  need  for  haste  to  finish  aught; 

But  sweet  beginnings  were  repeated  still 

Like  infant  babblings  that  no  task  fulfil ; 

For  love,  that  loved  not  change,  constrained  the  simple  will. 

Till,  hurling  stones  in  mere  athletic  joy, 

Strong  Lamech  struck  and  killed  his  fairest  boy, 

And  tried  to  wake  him  with  the  tenderest  cries. 

And  fetched  and  held  before  the  glaz6d  eyes 

The  things  they  best  had  loved  to  look  upon ; 

But  never  glance  or  smile  or  sigh  he  won. 

The  generations  stood  around  those  twain 

Helplessly  gazing,  till  their  father  Cain 

Parted  the  press,  and  said,  "He  will  not  wake; 

This  is  the  endless  sleep,  and  we  must  make 

A  bed  deep  down  for  him  beneath  the  sod; 

For  know,  my  sons,  there  Is  a  mighty  God 

Angry  with  all  man's  race,  but  most  with  me. 

I  fled  from  out  His  laud  in  vain  I— 'tis  He 

Who  came  and  slew  the  lad,  for  He  has  found 

This  home  of  ours,  and  we  shall  all  be  bound 

By  the  harsh  bands  of  His  most  cruel  will, 

Which  any  moment  may  some  dear  one  kill. 

Nay,  though  we  live  for  countless  moons,  at  last 

We  and  all  ours  shall  die  like  summers  past. 

Tills  is  Jehovah's  will,  and  He  is  strong; 

I  thought  the  way  I  travelled  was  too  long 

For  Him  to  follow  me:  my  thought  was  vain! 

He  walks  unseen,  but  leaves  a  track  of  pain. 

Pale  Death  His  footprint  is,  and  He  will  come  again  '" 

And  a  new  spirit  from  that  hour  came  o'er 

The  race  of  Cain :  soft  idlesse  was  no  more, 

But  even  the  sunshine  had  a  heart  of  care, 

Smiling  with  hidden  dread— a  mother  fair 

Who  folding  to  her  breast  a  dying  child 

Beams  with  feigned  joy  that  but  makes  sadness  mild. 

Death  was  now  lord  of  Life,  and  at  his  word 

Time,  vague  as  air  before,  new  terrors  stirred, 


THE   LEGEND   OP   JUBAL. 

With  measured  wing  now  audibly  arose 

Throbbing  tlirough  all  things  to  some  unknown  close. 

Now  glad  Content  by  clutching  Haste  was  torn, 

And  Work  grew  eager,  and  Device  was  born. 

It  seemed  the  light  was  uever  hived  before, 

Now  each  man  said,  '"Twill  go  and  come  no  more." 

No  budding  branch,  no  pebble  from  the  brook, 

No  form,  no  shadow,  but  new  dearness  took 

From  the  one  thought  that  life  must  have  an  end; 

And  the  last  parting  now  began  to  send 

Diffusive  dread  through  love  and  wedded  bliss, 

Thrilling  them  into  finer  tenderness. 

Then  Memory  disclosed  her  face  divine. 

That  like  the  calm  nocturnal  lights  doth  shine 

Within  the  soul,  and  shows  the  sacred  graves, 

And  shows  the  presence  that  no  sunlight  craves. 

No  space,  no  warmth,  but  moves  among  them  all ; 

Gone  and  yet  here,  and  coming  at  each  call, 

With  ready  voice  and  eyes  that  understand. 

And  lips  that  ask  a  kiss,  and  dear  rcsponsh-B  hand. 

Thus  to  Cain's  race  death  was  tear-watered  seed 

Of  various  lile  and  action-shaping  need. 

But  chief  the  sons  of  Lamech  felt  the  stings 

Of  new  ambition,  and  the  force  that  springs 

In  passion  beating  on  the  shores  of  fate. 

They  said,  "There  comes  a  night  when  all  too  late 

The  mind  shall  long  to  prompt  the  achieving  hand, 

The  eager  thought  behind  closed  portals  stand, 

And  the  last  wishes  to  the  mute  lips  press 

Buried  ere  death  in  silent  helplessness. 

Then  while  the  soul  its  way  with  sound  can  cleave. 

And  wliile  the  arm  is  strong  to  strike  and  heave. 

Let  soul  and  arm  give  shape  that  will  abide 

And  rule  above  our  graves,  and  power  divide 

With  that  great  god  of  daj',  whose  rays  must  bend 

As  we  shall  make  the  moving  shadows  tend. 

Come,  let  us  fashion  acts  that  are  to  be, 

When  we  shall  lie  in  darkness  silently. 

As  our  young  brother  doth,  whom  yet  we  see 

Fallen  and  slain,  but  reigning  in  our  will 

By  that  one  image  of  him  pale  and  still." 

For  Laniech's  sons  were  heroes  of  their  race: 

Jabal,  the  eldest,  bore  upon  his  face 

The  look  of  that  calm  river-god,  the  Nile, 

Mildly  secure  in  power  that  needs  not  guile. 

But  Tnbal-Cain  was  restless  as  the  fire 

That  glows  and  spreads  and  leaps  from  high  to  higher- 

Where'er  is  aught  to  seize  or  to  subdue; 

Strong  as  a  storm  he  lifted  or  o'erthrew, 

His  urgent  limbs  like  rounded  granite  grew, 

Such  granite  as  the  plunging  torrent  wears 

And  roaring  rolls  around  through  countless  years. 

But  strength  that  still  on  movement  must  be  fed. 

Inspiring  thought  of  change,  devices  bred. 

And  urged  his  mind  through  earth  and  air  to  rove 

For  force  that  he  could  conquer  if  he  strove, 


THE   LEGEND  OF  JUBAL. 

For  liirkiiicr  forms  that  ml^ht  new  tnsks  fulfil 
And  yield  unvvillhip;  to  his  ptron!,'ci'  will. 
Such  Tubal-Cain.     But  .Tubal  ha(i  a  frame 
Fashioned  to  liner  senses,  wliicli  becauK! 
A  yearning  for  some  hidden  soul  of  things, 
Some  outward  touch  conii)letc  on  inner  springs 
That  vaguely  moving  bred  a  lonely  jiain, 
A  want  that  did  but  stronger  grow  with  gain 
Of  all  good  else,  as  spirits  might  be  sa<l 
For  lack  of  sjjeech  to  toll  us  they  are  glad. 

Now  .Tabal  learned  to  tame  the  lowing  kine, 

And  from  their  udders  drew  the  snow-white  wine 

1'liat  stirs  the  innocent  joy,  and  makes  the  stream 

Of  elemental  life  wiih  fulness  teem; 

The  star-browed  calves  he  nursed  with  feeding  hand, 

And  sheltered  them,  till  all  the  little  band 

Stood  mustered  gazing  at  the  sunset  way 

Whence  he  would  come  with  store  at  close  of  day. 

He  soothed  the  silly  sheep  with  friendly  tone 

And  reared  their  staggering  lambs  that,  older  grown, 

Followed  his  steps  with  sensc-tanght  memory; 

Till  he,  their  shepherd,  could  their  leader  bo 

And  guide  them  through  the  pastures  as  he  would, 

With  sway  that  grew  from  ministry  of  good. 

He  spread  his  tents  upon  the  grassy  plain 

Which,  eastward  widening  like  the  open  main, 

Showed  the  first  whiteness  'neath  the  morning  star; 

Near  him  his  sister,  deft,  as  women  are, 

Plied  her  quick  skill  in  sequence  to  his  thought 

Till  the  hid  treasures  of  the  milk  she  caught 

Revealed  like  pollen  'mid  the  petals  v.hite, 

The  golden  pollen,  virgin  to  the  light. 

Even  the  she-wolf  with  young,  on  rapine  bent, 

He  caught  and  tethered  in  his  mat-walled  tent. 

And  cherished  all  her  little  sharp-nosed  young 

Till  the  small  race  with  ho])e  and  terror  clung 

About  his  footsteps,  till  each  new-reared  brood. 

Remoter  from  the  memories  of  the  wood, 

More  glad  discerned  their  common  home  with  man. 

This  was  the  work  of  Jabal :  he  began 

The  pastoral  life,  and,  sire  of  joys  to  be, 

Spread  the  sweet  ties  that  bind  the  family 

O'er  dear  dumb  souls  that  thrilled  at  man's  caress. 

And  shared  bis  pains  with  patient  helpfulness. 

Hut  Tiibal-C.iin  had  caught  and  yoked  the  fire, 
Yoked  it  with  stones  that  bent  the  flaming  spire 
And  made  it  roar  in  prisoned  servitude 
Witliin  the  furnace,  till  with  force  subdued 
It  changed  all  forms  he  willed  to  work  upon, 
Till  hard  from  soft,  and  soft  from  hard,  he  won. 
The  i)liant  clay  he  moulded  as  he  would, 
And  laughed  with  joy  when  'mid  the  heat  it  stood 
Shaped  as  his  hand  had  chosen,  while  the  nniss 
That  fl-om  bis  hold,  dark,  obstinate,  would  pass. 


THE  LEGEND  OP  JUBAL. 

He  drew  all  glowing  from  the  bn?y  heat, 

All  breathing  as  with  life  that  he  could  beat 

With  thuiuleriii,!,'  liammer,  niiikiug  it  ol>ey 

His  will  creative,  like  the  pale  soft  clay. 

Each  day  he  wrought  and  better  than  he  jihiiined, 

Shape  breeding  shape  beneath  liis  restless  hand. 

(The  soul  without  still  helps  the  soul  within. 

And  its  deft  magic  ends  what  we  begin.) 

Nay,  in  his  dreams  his  hammer  he  would  wield 

And  seem  to  see  a  myriad  tyjies  revealed, 

Then  spring  with  wondering  triumphant  crj-, 

And,  le^t  the  inspiring  visi(m  should  go  by, 

Would  rush  to  labor  with  that  plastic  zeal 

Which  all  the  passicm  of  our  life  can  steal 

For  force  to  work  with,    finch  day  saw  the  birth 

Of  various  forms  which,  flung  upon  the  earth. 

Seemed  harmless  toys  to  cheat  the  exacting  hour, 

But  were  as  seeds  instinct  with  hidden  power. 

The  axe,  the  club,  the  spikod  wheel,  the  chain, 

Held  silently  the  shrieks  and  moans  of  pain  ; 

And  near  them  latent  Iny  in  share  and  spade, 

lu  the  strong  bar,  the  saw,  and  deep-curved  blade, 

61ad  voices  of  the  hearth  and  harvest-home. 

The  social  good,  and  all  earth's  joy  to  come. 

Thus  to  mixed  ends  wrought  Tubal;  and  they  say, 

Some  things  he  made  h.ave  lasted  to  this  day; 

A?,  thirty  silver  pieces  that  were  found 

By  Noah's  children  buried  in  the  ground. 

He  mnde  them  from  mere  hunger  of  device, 

Those  small  white  disks;  but  they  became  the  price 

The  traitor  Judas  sold  his  Master  for; 

And  men  still  handling  them  in  peace  and  war 

Catch  foul  disease,  that  comes  as  appetite. 

And  lurks  and  clings  as  withering,  damning  blight. 

But  Tubnl-C'aiu  wot  not  of  treachery, 

Nor  greedy  lu^,  nor  any  ill  to  be, 

Save  the  one  ill  of  sinking  into  nought, 

Banished  from  action  and  act-shaping  thought. 

He  was  the  sire  of  swift-transforming  skill, 

Which  arms  for  conquest  man's  ambitious  will  ; 

And  round  him  gladly,  as  his  hammer  rung, 

Gathereil  the  elders  and  the  growing  young: 

These  handled  vaguely  and  those  plied  the  tools. 

Till,  happy  chance  begetting  conscious  rules. 

The  home  of  Cain  with  industry  was  rife, 

Ajid  glimpses  of  a  strong  persistent  life. 

Panting  through  generations  as  one  breath. 

And  filling  with  its  soul  the  blank  of  death. 

Jubal,  too,  watched  the  hammer,  till  his  eyes, 

No  longer  following  it«  fall  or  rise, 

Seemed  glad  with  something  that  they  could  not  Fee, 

But  only  listened  to— some  melody, 

Wherein  dumb  longings  inward  speech  had  found. 

Won  from  the  common  store  of  struggling  sound. 

Then,  as  the  metal  shapes  more  various  grew. 

And,  hurled  upon  each  other,  resonance  drew. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  JUBAL. 

Each  gave  new  tones,  the  revelations  dim 

Of  some  extcfnal  soul  that  sijoke  for  him: 

The  hollow  vesf^el's  clang,  the  clash,  the  boom, 

Like  liL;ht  that  makes  wide  spiritual  room 

And  skyey  spaces  in  the  spaceless  thought, 

To  Jubal  such  enlarged  passion  brought 

That  love,  hope,  rag(^,  and  all  experience. 

Were  fused  in  vaster  being,  fetching  thence 

Concords  and  discords,  cadences  and  cries 

That  seemed  from  some  world-shrouded  soul  to  rise, 

Some  rapture  more  intense,  some  mightier  rage, 

Some  living  sea  that  burst  the  bounds  of  man's  brief  age. 

Then  with  such  blissful  trouble  and  glad  care 

For  growth  within  unborn  as  mothers  bear, 

To  the  far  woods  he  wandered,  listening, 

And  heard  the  birds  their  little  stories  sing 

In  notes  whose  rise  and  fall  seemed  melted  speech — 

Melted  with  tears,  smiles,  glances — that  can  reach 

More  quickly  through  our  frame's  deep-winding  night. 

And  without  thought  raise  thought's  best  fruit,  delight. 

Pondering,  he  sought  his  home  again  and  heard 

The  fluctuant  changes  of  the  spoken  word  : 

The  deep  remonstrance  and  the  argued  want, 

Insistent  first  in  close  monotonous  chant, 

Next  leaping  upward  to  defiant  stand 

Or  downward  beating  like  the  resolute  hand; 

The  mother's  call,  the  children's  answering  cry, 

The  laugh's  light  cataract  tumbling  from  on  high; 

The  suasive  repetitions  Jabal  taught. 

That  timid  browsing  cattle  homeward  brought; 

The  clear-winged  fugue  of  echoes  vanishing ; 

And  through  them  all  the  hammer's  rhythmic  ring. 

Jubal  sat  lonely,  all  around  was  dim. 

Yet  his  face  glowed  with  light  revealed  to  him : 

For  as  the  delicate  stream  of  odor  wakes 

The  thought-wed  sentience  and  some  image  makes 

From  out  the  mingled  fragments  of  the  past. 

Finely  compact  in  wholeness  that  will  last, 

So  streamed  as  from  the  body  of  each  sound 

Subtler  pulsations,  swift  as  warmth,  which  found 

All  prisoned  germs  and  all  their  powers  unbound. 

Till  thought  self-luminous  flamed  from  memory, 

And  in  creative  vision  wandered  free. 

Then  Jubal,  standing,  rapturous  arms  upraised, 

And  on  the  dark  with  eager  eyes  he  gazed. 

As  had  some  manifested  god  been  there. 

It  was  his  thought  he  saw:  the  presence  fair 

Of  unachieved  achievement,  the  high  task, 

The  struggling  unborn  spirit  that  doth  ask 

With  irresistible  cry  for  blood  and  breath. 

Till  feeding  its  great  life  we  sink  in  death. 

He  said,  "Were  now  those  mighty  tones  and  cries 
Tliat  from  the  giant  soul  of  earth  arise, 
Those  groans  of  some  great  travail  heard  from  far, 
Some  power  at  wrestle  with  the  things  that  are. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  JUBAL. 

Those  sonncls  which  vary  with  the  varying  form 

Of  chiy  and  metal,  and  in  sightless  swarm 

Fill  the  wide  space  with  tremors:  were  these  wed 

To  human  voices  with  such  passion  fed 

As  does  but  glimmer  in  our  common  speech, 

But  might  tlame  out  in  tones  whose  changing  reach, 

Suri)assing  meagre  need,  informs  the  sense 

With  fuller  union,  liner  difference — 

Were  this  great  vision,  now  obscurely  bright 

As  morning  hills  that  melt  in  new-poured  light, 

Wrought  into  solid  form  and  living  sound. 

Moving  with  ordered  throlj  and  sure  rebound, 

Then—    Nay,  I,  Jul)al,  will  that  work  begin  ! 

The  generations  of  our  race  sliall  win 

Kew  life,  that  grows  from  out  the  heart  of  this, 

As  spring  from  winter,  or  as  lovers'  bliss 

From  out  the  dull  unknown  of  uuwaked  energies." 

Thus  he  resolved,  and  in  the  soul-fed  light 
Of  coming  ages  waited  through  the  night, 
Watching  for  that  near  dawn  whose  chiller  ray 
Showed  but  the  unchanged  world  <if  yesterday ; 
Where  all  the  order  of  liis  dream  divine 
Lay  like  Olympian  forms  within  the  mine  ; 
Where  fervor  that  could  fill  the  earthly  round 
With  thronged  joys  of  form-begotten  sound 
Must  shrink  intense  within  the  patient  power 
That  lonely  labors  through  the  niggard  hour. 
Such  patience  have  the  heroes  who  begin, 
Sailing  the  first  to  lands  which  others  win. 
Jubal  must  dare  as  great  beginners  dare, 
Strike  form's  first  way  in  matter  rude  and  bare. 
And,  yearning  vaguely  tt)ward  the  plenteous  quire 
Of  the  world's  harvest,  make  one  poor  small  lyre. 
He  made  it,  and  from  out  its  measured  frame 
Drew  the  harmonic  soul,  whose  answers  came 
With  guidance  sweet  and  lessons  of  delight 
Teaching  to  ear  and  hand  the  blissful  Right, 
Where  strictest  law  is  gladness  to  the  sense 
And  all  desire  bends  toward  obedience. 

Then  Jubal  poured  his  triumph  in  a  song— 

The  rapturous  word  that  rapturous  notes  prolong 

As  radiance  streams  from  smallest  things  that  burn. 

Or  thought  of  loving  into  love  doth  turn. 

And  still  his  lyre  gave  companionship 

In  sense-taught  concert  as  of  lip  with  lip. 

Alone  amid  the  hills  at  first  he  tried 

His  winged  song;   then  with  adoring  pride 

And  bridegroom's  joy  at  leading  forth  his  bride. 

He  said,  "This  wonder  which  my  soul  hath  found, 

This  heart  of  music  in  the  might  of  sound. 

Shall  f(U-thwith  be  the  share  of  all  our  race 

And  like  the  morning  gladden  common  space: 

The  song  shall  spread  and  swell  as  rivers  do, 

And  I  will  tench  our  youth  with  skill  to  woo 


TUE  LEGEND   OF  .TUBAL. 

This  living  lyre,  to  know  its  cecret  will, 

Its  fine  division  of  the  j^ood  and  ill. 

So  .'sliall  men  call  me  Hire  of  harmony, 

And  where  groat  >Song  is,  tliere  my  life  shall  be." 

Thus  glorying  as  a  god  bcnctifent, 

Forth  from  his  solitary  joy  he  went 

To  bless  nianUind.     It  was  at  evening, 

When  sIkuIows  lengthen  from  each  westward  thing, 

When  imminence  of  change  makes  sense  more  fine 

And  light  seems  holier  in  its  grand  decline. 

The  fruit-trees  wore  their  slndded  coronal, 

Earth  and  her  children  were  at  festival. 

Glowing  as  with  one  heart  and  one  consent — 

Thought,  love,  trees,  rocks,  iu  sweet  warm  radiance  blent. 

The  tribe  of  Cain  w.ns  resting  on  the  ground. 

The  various  ages  wreathed  iu  one  broad  round. 

Here  lay,  wliile  children  peeped  o'er  his  huge  thighs, 

The  sinewy  man  embrowned  by  centuries  ; 

Here  the  broad-bosomed  mother  of  the  strong 

Looked,  like  Demeter,  placid  o'er  the  throng 

Of  young  lithe  forms  whose  rest  was  movement  too — 

Tricks,  prattle,  nods,  and  laughs  that  lightly  flew. 

And  swayings  as  of  flower-beds  where  Love  blew. 

For  all  had  feasted  well  upon  the  flesh 

Of  juicy  fruits,  on  nuts,  and  honey  fresh, 

And  now  their  wine  was  health-bred  merriment, 

Which  through  the  generations  circling  went. 

Leaving  none  sad,  for  even  fatlier  Cain 

Smiled  as  a  Titan  might,  despising  pain. 

Jabal  sflt  climbed  on  by  a  playful  ring 

Of  children,  lambs  and  whelps,  whose  gambolling, 

With  tiny  hoofs,  paws,  hands,  and  dinijiled  feet. 

Made  barks,  bleats,  langhs,  in  pretty  liubbub  meet. 

IJut  Tulial's  hammer  rang  from  far  away, 

Tubal  alone  would  keep  no  holiday, 

His  furnace  must  not  slack  for  any  feast, 

For  of  all  hardship  work  he  counted  least ; 

He  scorned  all  rest  but  sleep,  where  every  dream 

Made  his  repose  more  putent  action  seem. 

Yet  with  health's  nectar  some  strange  thirst  was  blent, 

The  fateful  growth,  the  unnamed  discontent, 

The  inward  shaping  toward  some  unborn  power, 

Some  deeper-breathing  act,  the  being's  flower. 

After  all  gestures,  words,  and  speech  of  eyes. 

The  soul  had  more  to  tell,  and  broke  in  sighs. 

Then  from  the  eagt,  with  glory  on  his  head 

Such  as  low-slanting  beams  on  corn-waves  spread. 

Came  Jubal  with  his  lyre  :   there  'mid  the  throng. 

Where  the  blank  space  was,  poured  a  solemn  song, 

Touching  his  lyre  to  full  harmonic  throb 

And  measured  pulse,  with  cadences  that  sob, 

E.xult  and  cry,  and  search  the  inmost  deep 

Where  the  dark  sources  of  new  passion  sleCp. 


THE   LEGEND  OP  JUBAL. 

Joy  toek  the  air,  and  took  each  breathing  soul, 

Embracing  ttioin  in  cue  entranced  whole, 

Yet  thrilled  each  varying  frame  to  various  ends, 

As  Spring  new-waking  through  the  creature  scuds 

Or  rage  or  tenderness  ;   more  plenteous  life 

Here  breeding  dread,  and  th'jre  a  fiercer  strife. 

He  who  had  lived  through  twice  three  centuries. 

Whose  months  monotonous,  like  trees  on  trees 

In  hoary  forests,  stretched  a  backward  maze. 

Dreamed  himself  dimly  through  the  travelled  da}'S 

Till  in  clear  light  he  paused,  and  felt  the  sun 

That  warmed  him  when  he  was  a  little  one; 

Felt  that  true  heaven,  the  recovered  past, 

The  dear  small  Known  amid  the  Unknown  xast, 

And  in  that  heaven  wept.     But  younger  limBs 

Thrilled  toward  the  future,  that  bright  land  which  swiins 

In  western  glory,  isles  aud  streams  and  bays, 

Where  hidden  pleasures  float  in  golden  haze. 

Aud  in  all  these  the  rhythmic  influence, 

Sweetly  o'ercharging  the  delighted  seuse, 

Flowed  out  in  movements,  little  waves  that  spifead 

Enhirgiug,  till  in  tidal  uuion  led 

The  youths  and  maidens  both  alike  long-tressed, 

By  grace-inspiring  melody  possessed. 

Rose  in  slow  dance,  with  beauteous  floating  swerve 

Of  limbs  and  hair,  and  many  a  melting  curve 

Of  ringed  feet  swayed  by  each  close-linked  palm: 

Then  Jubal  poured  more  rapture  in  his  psalm, 

The  dance  fired  music,  music  fired  the  dance, 

The  glow  diffusive  lit  each  countenance, 

Till  all  the  gazing  elders  rose  and  stood 

With  glad  yet  awful  shock  of  that  mysterious  good. 

Even  Tubal  caught  the  sound,  and  wondering  came. 
Urging  his  sooty  bulk  like  smoke-wrapt  flame 
Till  he  could  see  his  brother  with  the  lyre, 
The  work  for  which  he  lent  his  furnace-fire 
And  diligent  hammer,  witting  nought  of  this — 
This  power  in  metal  shape  which  made  strange  bliss, 
Entering  witliiu  him  like  a  dream  full-fraught 
With  new  creations  finished  in  a  thought. 

The  sun  had  sunk,  but  music  still  was  there. 

And  when  this  ceased,  still  triumph  filled  the  air: 

It  seemed  the  stars  were  shining  with  delight 

And  that  no  night  was  ever  like  this  night. 

All  clung  with  praise  to  Jubal :  some  besought 

That  he  would  teach  them  his  new  skill ;  some  caught, 

Swiftly  as  smiles  are  canght  in  looks  that  meet, 

The  tone's  melodic  change  and  rhythmic  beat: 

'Twas  easy  following  where  invention  trod — 

All  eyes  can  see  when  light  flows  ont  from  God. 

Aud  thus  did  Jubal  to  his  race  reveal 
Music  their  larger  sou!,  where  woe  and  weal 
Filling  the  resonant  chords,  the  song,  the  dance, 
Moved  with  a  wider-wingC'd  utterance. 


10  THE  LEGEND  OF  JUi5AL. 

Now  many  a  lyre  was  fashioned,  many  a  son?; 

il.'iised  echoes  new,  ohl  echoes  to  iiroloni;, 

Till  thiiis^s  of  Jubars  malcinj;  were  so  rife, 

"  Iloariiig  myself,"  he  said,  "hems  in  my  life, 

And  I  Avill  get  me  to  some  far-off  land. 

Where  higher  mountains  nnder  heaven  stand 

And  tonch  tlie  blue  at  rising  of  the  stars. 

Whose  song  they  hear  where  no  rough  mingling  mars 

The  great  clear  voices.    Such  lands  there  must  be. 

Where  varying  forma  make  varying  symphony— 

Where  other  thunders  roll  amid  the  hills, 

Some  mightier  wind  a  mightier -forest  tills 

With  other  strains  through  other-shapen  boughs: 

Where  bees  and  birds  and  beasts  that  hunt  or  browse 

Will  teach  mc  songs  I  know  not.     Listening  there, 

My  life  shall  grow  like  trees  both  tall  and  fair 

That  rise  and  spread  and  bloom  toward  fuller  fruit  each  year." 

He  took  a  raft,  and  travelled  with  the  stream 

Southward  for  many  a  league,  till  he  might  deem 

He  saw  at  last  the  pillars  of  the  sky, 

IJcholding  mountains  whose  white  majesty 

Rushed  through  hini  as  new  awe,  and  made  new  soug 

That  swept  with  fuller  wave  the  chords  along. 

Weighting  his  voice  with  deep  religious  chime, 

The  iteration  of  slow  chant  sublime. 

It  was  the  region  long  inhabited 

By  all  the  race  of  Seth ;  and  Jubal  said : 

"Here  have  I  found  my  thirsty  soul's  desire, 

Eastward  the  hills  touch  heaven,  and  evening's  fire 

Flames  through  deep  waters;  I  will  take  my  rest, 

And  feed  anew  from  my  great  mother's  breast. 

The  sky-clasped  Earth,  whose  voices  nurture  me 

As  the  flowers'  sweetness  doth  the  honey-bee." 

He  lingered  wandering  for  many  an  age. 

And,  sowing  music,  made  high  heritage 

For  generations  far  beyond  the  Flood — 

For  the  poor  late-begotten  human  brood 

Born  to  life's  weary  brevity  and  perilous  good. 

And  ever  as  he  travelled  he  would  climb 

The  farthest  mountain,  yet  the  heavenly  chime, 

The  mighty  tolling  of  the  far-off  spheres 

Beating  their  pathway,  never  touched  his  ears. 

But  wheresoe'er  he  rose  the  heavens  rose, 

And  the  far-gazing  mountain  could  disclose 

Nought  but  a  wider  earth;   until  one  height 

Showed  him  the  ocean  stretched  in  liquid  light. 

And  he  could  hear  its  multitudinous  roar, 

Its  plunge  and  hiss  upon  the  pebbled  shore: 

Then  Jubal  silent  sat,  and  touched  his  lyre  no  more. 

He  thought,  "The  world  is  great,  but  I  am  weak, 
And  where  the  sky  bends  is  no  solid  penk 
To  give  me  footing,  but  instead,  this  main — 
Myriads  of  maddened  horses  thundering  o'er  the  plain. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  JUBAL.  11 

"New  voices  come  to  me  where'er  I  roam, 
My  heart  too  widens  with  its  wiilciiing  home: 
But  song  grows  wealcer,  and  the  heart  must  breali 
For  lacli  of  voice,  or  fingers  tliat  can  wulic 
The  lyre's  full  answer;  uny,  its  chords  were  all 
Too  few  to  meet  the  growing  spirit's  call. 
The  former  songs  seem  little,  yet  no  more 
Can  soul,  hand,  voice,  with  interchanging  lore 
Tell  what  the  earth  is  saying  unto  me: 
The  secret  is  too  great,  I  hear  coufnsedly. 

"No  farther  will  I  travel  :  once  again 

Jly  brethren  I  will  see,  and  that  fair  plain 

Where  I  and  Song  were  born.    There  fresh-voiced  youth 

Will  pour  my  strains  with  all  the  early  truth 

Which  now  abides  not  in  my  voice  and  hands, 

But  only  iu  the  soul,  the  will  that  stands 

Helpless  to  move.     My  tribe  remembering 

Will  cry  'Tis  he !' and  ruu  to  greet  me,  welcoming." 

The  way  was  weary.    Many  a  date-palm  grew. 

And  shook  out  clustered  gold  against  the  blue, 

While  Jubul,  guided  by  the  steadfast  spheres. 

Sought  tlie  dear  home  of  those  first  eager  years. 

When,  with  fresh  vision  fed,  the  fniler  will 

Took  living  outward  shape  in  pliant  skill ; 

For  still  he  hoped  to  find  the  former  things, 

And  the  warm  gladness  recognition  brings. 

His  footsteps  erred  among  the  mazy  woods 

And  long  illusive  sameness  of  the  floods, 

Winding  and  wandering.    Through  far  regions,  strange 

With  Gentile  homes  and  faces,  did  he  range, 

And  left  his  music  in  their  memory. 

And  left  at  last,  when  nought  besides  would  free 

His  homeward  steps  from  clinging  hands  and  cries, 

The  ancient  lyre.    And  now  iu  ignorant  eyes 

No  sign  remained  of  Jnbal,  Lamech's  son, 

That  mortal  frame  wherein  was  first  begun 

The  immortal  life  of  song.    His  withered  brow 

Pressed  over  eyes  that  held  no  lightning  now. 

His  locks  streamed  whiteness  on  the  hurrying  air. 

The  unresting  soul  had  worn  itself  quite  bare 

Of  beauteous  token,  as  the  outworn  might 

Of  oaks  slow  dying,  gaunt  in  summer's  light. 

His  full  deep  voice  toward  thinnest  treble  ran  : 

He  was  the  ruue-writ  story  of  a  man. 

And  so  at  last  he  neared  the  well-known  land. 
Could  see  the  hills  iu  ancient  order  stand 
With  friendly  faces  whose  familiar  gaze 
Looked  through  the  sunshine  of  his  childish  days; 
Knew  the  deep-shadowed  folds  of  hanging  woods. 
And  seemed  to  see  the  self-same  insect  broods 
Whirling  and  quivering  o'er  the  flowers — to  hear 
The  self-same  cuckoo  making  distance  near. 
Yea,  the  dear  Earth,  with  mother's  constancy. 
Met  and  embraced  him,  and  said,  "Thou  art  he! 


13  THE  LEGEND  OP  JUBAL. 

This  wns  tliy  cradle,  here  my  bronot  was  thine, 
AVlicrc  feeding,  thon  didst  all  tliy  lift:  entwine 
With  my  sky-wedded  life  in  hciitagc  divine." 

Bnt  wendinp^  ever  tlirougli  the  watered  plain, 

Firm  not  to  rest  t<ave  in  the  homo  of  Cain, 

He  saw  dread  Change,  with  dnbions  face  and  cold 

That  never  kept  a  welcome  for  the  old, 

Like  some  strange  heir  ui)on  the  hearth,  arise 

Saying  "This  home  is  mine."    He  thought  his  eyes 

Mocked  all  deep  memories,  as  things  new  made, 

U?nri)ing  sense,  make  old  things  shrink  and  fade 

And  seem  ashamed  to  meet  the  staring  day. 

His  memcH-y  saw  a  small  foot-trodden  way, 

His  eyes  a  broad  far-stretching  paven  road 

Bordered  with  many  a  tomb  and  fair  abode ; 

The  little  city  that  once  nestled  low 

As  bnxzLng  groups  about  some  central  glow, 

Spread  like  a  murmuring  crowd  o'er  plain  aud  steep, 

Or  monster  huge  in  heavy-breathing  sleep. 

His  heart  grew  faint,  and  tremblingly  he  sank 

Close  by  the  wayside  on  a  weed-grown  bank, 

Not  far  from  where  a  new-raised  temple  stood, 

Skj'-roofed,  aud  fragrant  with  wrought  cedar  wood. 

The  morning  sun  was  high ;   his  rays  fell  hot 

On  this  hap-chosen,  dusty,  common  spot. 

On  the  dry-withered  grass  aud  withered  man  : 

That  wondrous  frame  where  melody  began 

Lay  as  a  tomb  defaced  that  no  eye  cared  to  scan. 

But  while  he  sank  far  music  reached  his  ear. 

He  listened  until  wonder  silenced  fear 

And  gladness  wonder;   for  the  broadening  stream 

Of  sound  advancing  was  his  early  dieani, 

Brought  like  falfilment  of  forgotten  prayer; 

As  if  his  soul,  breathed  out  upon  the  air. 

Had  held  the  invisible  seeds  of  harmony 

Quick  with  the  various  strains  of  life  to  be. 

He  listened:   the  sweet  mingled  difference 

With  charm  alternate  took  the  meeting  sense; 

Then  bursting  like  some  shield-broad  lily  red. 

Sudden  and  near  the  trumpet's  notes  out-spread, 

And  soon  his  eyes  could  see  the  metal  flower. 

Shining  upturned,  out  on  the  morning  pour 

Its  incense  audible  ;   could  see  a  train 

From  out  the  street  slow-winding  on  the  plain 

With  lyres  and  cymbals,  flutes  and  psalteries. 

While  men,  youths,  maids,  in  concert  sang  to  these 

With  various  throat,  or  in  succession  poured, 

Or  in  full  volume  mingled.    But  one  word 

Ruled  each  recuri-ent  rise  and  answering  fall. 

As  when  the  multitudes  adoring  call 

On  some  great  name  divine,  their  common  soul. 

The  common  need,  love,  joy,  that  knits  them  iu  one  whole. 

The  word  was"Jubalt".  .  .  "Jubal"  filled  the  air 
And  seemed  to  ride  aloft,  a  spirit  there-. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  JUBAL.  13 

Creator  of  the  quire,  the  full-franght  straiu 

That  grateful  rolled  itself  to  him  agaiu. 

The  aged  man  adust  upon  the  bank — 

Whom  no  eye  saw — at  first  with  rapture  drank 

The  bliss  of  music,  then,  with  swelling  heart, 

Felt,  this  was  his  own  being's  greater  part, 

The  universal  joy  once  born  in  him. 

Bnt  when  the  train,  with  living  face  and  limb 

And  vocal  breath,  came  nearer  and  more  near. 

The  longing  grew  that  they  should  Iiold  him  dear; 

Him,  Lamech's  son,  whom  all  their  fathers  knew, 

The  breatliiug  Julial— him,  to  whom  their  love  was  due. 

All  was  forgotten  but  the  burning  need 

To  claim  his  fuller  self,  to  claim  the  deed 

That  lived  away  from  him,  and  grew  apart. 

While  he  as  from  a  tomb,  with  lonely  heart, 

Warmed  by  no  meeting  glance,  no  hand  that  pressed, 

Lay  chill  amid  the  life  his  life  had  blessed. 

AVhat  though  his  song  should  spread  from  man's  small  race, 

Out  through  the  myriad  worlds  that  people  space 

And  make  the  heavens  one  joy-difl'using  quire? — 

Still  'mid  that  vast  would  throb  the  kceu  desire 

Of  this  poor  aged  flesh,  this  eventide. 

This  twiliglit  soon  iu  darkness  to  subside. 

This  little  pulse  of  self  that,  having  glowed 

Through  thrice  three  centuries,  and  divinely  strowcd 

The  light  of  music  through  the  vague  of  sound. 

Ached  with  its  smallness  still  in  good  that  had  no  bound. 

For  no  eye  saw  him,  while  with  loving  pride 
Each  voice  with  each  in  |)raise  of  Jubal  vied. 
IMust  he  in  conscious  trance,  dumb,  helpless  lie 
While  all  that  ardent  kindred  passed  him  by? 
His  flesh  cried  out  to  live  with  living  men 
And  join  that  soul  which  to  the  inward  ken 
Of  all  the  hymning  train  was  present  there. 
Strong  passion's  daring  sees  not  aught  to  dare : 
The  frost-locked  starkness  of  liis  frame  low-bent. 
His  voice's  penury  of  tones  long  spent. 
He  felt  not ;  all  his  being  leaped  in  flame 
To  meet  his  kindred  as  they  onward  came 
Slackening  and  wheeling  toward  the  temple's  face : 
He  rushed  before  them  to  the  glittering  space. 
And,  with  a  strength  that  was  but  strong  desire. 
Cried,  "I  am  Jubal,  I!  ...  I  made  the  lyre!" 

The  tones  amid  a  lake  of  silence  fell 
Broken  and  strained,  as  if  a  feeble  bell 
Had  tuneless  pealed  the  triumph  of  a  land 
To  listening  crowds  in  e.xpectation  spanned. 
Sudden  came  showers  of  laughter  on  that  lake; 
They  spread  along  the  train  from  front  to  wake 
In  one  great  storm  of  merriment,  while  he 
Shrank  doubting  whether  he  could  Jubal  be. 
And  not  a  dream  of  Jubal,  who.se  rich  vein 
Of  passionate  music  came  with  that  dream-paiu 


1^  THE  LEGEND  OF  JUliAL. 

Wheiciii  the  sense  slips  oflf  fmiii  each  loved  thin;; 

Ami  all  appeaiance  is  mere  vanishing. 

But  ere  the  laiij,Miter  died  from  ont  the  rear, 

Anger  in  front  saw  profanation  near; 

Jubal  was  but  a  name  in  each  man's  faith 

For  glorious  power  untouched  by  that  slow  death 

Which  creeps  with  creeping  time;  this  too,  the  spot, 

And  this  the  day,  it  must  be  crime  to  blot. 

Even  with  scoiHug  at  a  madman's  lie: 

Jubal  was  not  a  name  to  wed  with  mockery. 

Two  rushed  upon  him:  two,  the  most  devout 

In  honor  of  great  Jubal,  thrust  him  out, 

And  beat  him  with  their  llutcs.    'Twas  little  need; 

He  strove  not,  cried  not,  but  with  tottering  speed, 

As  if  the  scorn  and  howls  were  driving  wind 

That  urged  his  body,  serving  so  the  mind 

Wliich  could  but  shrink  and  yearn,  he  sought  the  screen 

or  thorny  thickets,  and  there  fell  unseen. 

The  immortal  name  of  Jubal  filled  the  sky, 

While  Jubal  lonely  laid  him  down  to  die. 

He  said  within  his  soul,  "This  is  the  end: 

O'er  all  the  earth  to  where  the  heavens  bend 

And  hem  men's  travel,  I  have  breathed  my  soul : 

I  lie  here  now  the  remnant  of  that  whole, 

The  embers  of  a  life,  a  lonely  pain ; 

As  far-off  rivers  to  my  thirst  were  vain. 

So  of  my  mighty  years  nought  comes  to  me  again. 

"Is  the  day  sinking?    Softest  coolness  springs 

From  something  round  me:  dewy  shadowy  wings 

Enclose  me  all  around— no,  not  above— 

Is  moonlight  there?    I  see  a  face  of  love. 

Fair  as  sweet  music  when  my  heart  was  strong: 

Yea— art  thou  come  again  to  me,  great  Song?'" 

The  face  bent  over  him  like  silver  night 

In  long-iemembered  summers;  that  calm  light 

Of  days  which  shine  in  firmaments  of  thought, 

That  past  unchangeable,  from  change  still  wrought. 

And  gentlest  tones  were  with  the  vision  blent: 

He  knew  not  if  that  gaze  the  music  sent, 

Or  music  that  calm  gaze :  to  hear,  to  see, 

Was  but  one  undivided  ecstasy: 

The  raptured  senses  melted  into  one. 

And  parting  life  a  moment's  freedom  won 

From  in  and  outer,  as  a  little  child 

Sits  on  a  bank  and  sees  blue  heavens  mild 

Down  in  the  water,  and  forgets  its  limbs, 

And  knoweth  nought  save  the  blue  heaven  that  swims, 

"Jubal,"  the  face  said,  "I  am  thy  loved  Past, 
The  soul  that  makes  thee  one  from  first  to  last. 
I  am  the  angel  of  thy  life  and  death, 
Thy  oulbreathed  being  drawing  its  last  breath. 
Am  I  not  thine  alone,  a  dear  dead  bride 
Who  blest  thy  lot  above  all  men's  beside? 


THE  LEGEND  OF  JUBAL.  15 

Thy  bride  wliom  thou  wouldst  never  change,  nor  take 

Any  bride  living,  for  tliat  dead  one's  sake"? 

Was  I  not  all  thy  yearning  and  delight, 

Thy  chosen  search,  thy  senses'  beauteous  Right, 

Which  still  had  been  the  hunger  of  thy  frame 

In  central  heaven,  hadst  thon  been  still  the  same? 

Wouldst  thou  have  asked  aught  else  from  any  god— 

Whether  with  gleaming  feet  on  earth  he  trod 

Or  thundered  through  the  skies— aught  else  for  shnre 

Of  mortal  good,  than  in  thy  soul  to  bear 

The  growth  of  song,  and  feel  the  sweet  unrest 

Of  the  world's  spring-tide  in  thy  conscious  breast? 

No,  thou  hadst  grasped  thy  lot  with  all  its  pain, 

Kor  loosed  it  any  painless  lot  to  gain 

Where  music's  voice  was  silent ;  for  thy  fate 

Was  human  music's  self  incorporate  : 

Thy  senses'  keenness  and  thy  passionate  ctrife 

Were  flesh  of  her  flesh  and  her  womb  of  life. 

And  greatly  hast  thou  lived,  for  not  alone 

With  hidden  raptures  were  her  secrets  shown. 

Buried  within  thee,  as  the  purple  light 

Of  gems  may  sleep  in  solitary  night ; 

But  thy  expanding  joy  was  still  to  give. 

And  with  the  generous  air  in  song  to  live, 

Feeding  the  wave  of  ever-widening  bliss 

Where  fellowship  means  equal  perfectness. 

And  on  the  mountains  in  thy  wandering 

Thy  feet  were  l)eautiful  as  blossomed  spring, 

That  turns  the  leafless  wood  to  love's  glad  home, 

For  with  thy  coming  Melody  was  come. 

This  was  thy  lot,  to  feel,  create,  bestow, 

And  that  immeasurable  life  to  know 

From  which  the  fleshly  self  fulls  shrivelled,  dead, 

A  seed  primeval  that  has  forests  bred. 

It  is  the  glory  of  the  heritage 

Thy  life  has  left,  that  makes  thy  outcast  age : 

Thy  limbs  shall  lie  dark,  tombless  on  this  sod. 

Because  thou  shinest  in  man's  soul,  a  god. 

Who  found  and  gave  new  passion  and  new  joy 

That  nought  but  Earth's  destruction  can  destroy. 

Thy  gifts  to  give  was  thine  of  men  alone : 

'Twas  but  in  giving  that  thou  couldst  atone 

For  too  mnch  wealth  amid  their  poverty." 

The  words  seemed  melting  into  symphony, 
The  wings  upbore  him,  and  the  gazing  song 
Was  floating  hira  the  heavenly  space  along, 
Where  mighty  harmonies  all  gently  fell 
Through  veiling  vastness,  like  the  far-oflf  bell. 
Till,  ever  onward  through  the  choral  hlue, 
He  heard  more  faintly  and  more  faintly  knew, 
Quitting  mortality,  a  quenched  sun-wave, 
The  All-creating  Presence  for  his  grave. 

1S69. 


A  G  A  Til  A. 

CoMK  with  ine  to  the  inotiiituiii,  not  where  rocks 

Soar  liarsh  above  the  troops  of  hurrying  pines, 

But  where  the  enrth  spreads  soft  and  rounded  breasts 

To  feed  her  cliildrcii ;  where  the  generous  hills 

Lift  fi  green  isle  hetwixt  the  sky  and  plain 

To  keep  some  Old  World  things  aloof  from  change. 

Here  too  'tie  hill  and  hollow:  new-born  streams 

With  sweet  enforcement,  joyously  compelled 

Like  laughing  children,  hurry  down  the  steeps, 

And  make  a  dimpled  cba.>^e  athwart  the  stones; 

Pine  woods  are  black  upon  the  heights,  the  slopes 

Arc  green  with  pasture,  and  the  bearded  corn 

Fringes  the  blue  above  the  sudden  ridge: 

A  little  world  whose  round  horizon  cuts 

This  isle  of  hills  with  heaven  for  a  sea, 

Save  in  clear  moments  when  southwestward  gleams 

France  by  the  Khine,  melting  anon  to  haze. 

The  monks  of  old  chose  here  their  still  retreat, 

And  called  it  by  the  Blessed  Virgin's  name, 

Sancta  Maria,  which  the  peasant's  tongue. 

Speaking  from  out  the  parent's  heart  that  turns 

All  loved  things  into  little  things,  has  made 

Sanct  Miirgen— Holy  little  Mary,  dear 

As  all  the  sweet  home  tilings  she  smiles  upon. 

The  children  and  the  cows,  the  apple-trees. 

The  cart,  the  plough,  all  named  with  that  caress 

Which  feigns  them  little,  easy  to  be  held. 

Familiar  to  the  eyes  and  hand  aud  heart. 

What  though  a  Queen?    She  puts  her  aown  away 

And  witli  her  little  Boy  wears  common  clothes, 

Caring  for  common  wants,  remembering 

That  day  when  good  Saint  Joseph  left  his  woik 

To  marry  her  with  bumble  trust  sublime. 

The  monks  are  gone,  their  shadows  fall  no  more 

Tall-frocked  and  cowled  athwart  tlie  evening  fields 

At  milking-time ;  their  silent  corridors 

Are  turned  to  homes  of  bare-armed,  aproned  men, 

Who  toil  fin-  wife  and  children.    But  the  bells, 

Pealing  on  high  from  two  quaint  convent  towers. 

Still  ring  the  Catholic  signals,  summoning 

To  grave  remembrance  of  the  larger  life 

That  bears  our  own,  like  i)erishable  fruit 

Upon  its  heaven-wide  branches.     At  their  sound 

The  shepherd  boy  far  off  upon  the  hill, 

Tire  worlvers  with  the  saw  aud  at  the  forge, 

The  triple  generation  round  the  hearth— 


AGATHA.  17 

Gnnulames  mid  mothers  nud  the  flute-voiced  girls — 

Fall  on  their  knees  nnd  send  forth  prayerful  cries 

To  the  kind  Mother  with  the  little  Bo}-, 

Who  pleads  for  helpless  men  against  the  storm, 

Lightning  and  plagues  all  and  terrific  shapes 

Of  power  supreme. 

Within  the  prettiest  hollow  of  these  hills, 

Just  as  3'ou  enter  it,  upon  the  elope 

Stands  a  low  cottage  neighbored  cheerily 

By  running  water,  which,  at  farthest  end 

Of  the  same  hollow,  turns  a  heavy  mill, 

And  feeds  the  pasture  for  the  miller's  cows, 

Blanchi  and  Niigeli,  Veilchen  and  the  rest. 

Matrons  with  faces  as  Griselda  mild. 

Coming  at  call.    And  on  the  farthest  height 

A  little  tower  looks  out  above  the  piues 

Where  mounting  you  will  find  a  sanctuary 

Open  and  still;  without,  the  silent  crowd 

Of  heaven-planted,  inceuse-mingling  flowers  ; 

Withiu,  the  altar  where  the  Mother  sits 

'Mid  votive  tablets  hung  from  far-ofi"  years 

By  peasants  succored  in  the  peril  of  fire. 

Fever,  or  flood,  who  thouglj,t  that  Mary's  love, 

Willing  h'ut  not  omnipotent,  had  stood 

Between  their  lives  and  that  dread  power  which  sle\'/ 

Their  neighbor  at  their  side.     The  chapel  bell 

Will  melt  to  gentlest  music  ere  it  reach 

That  cottage  on  the  slope,  whose  garden  gate 

Has  caught  the  rose-tree  boughs  and  stands  a.iar ; 

So  does  the  door,  to  let  the  sunbeams  in ; 

For  in  the  slanting  sunbeams  angels  come 

And  visit  Agatha  who  dwells  within — 

Old  Agatha,  whose  cousins  Kate  and  Nell 

Are  housed  by  her  in  Love  and  Duty's  name. 

They  being  feeble,  with  small  withered  wits, 

And  she  believing  that  the  higher  gift 

Was  given  to  be  shared.    So  Agatha 

Shares  her  one  room,  all  neat  on  afternoons. 

As  if  some  memory  were  sacred  there 

And  everything  withiu  the  four  low  walla 

An  honored  relic. 

One  long  summer's  day 
An  angel  entered  at  the  rose-hung  gate, 
With  skirts  pale  blue,  a  brow  to  quench  the  pearl, 
Hair  soft  and  blonde  as  infants',  plenteous 
As  hers  who  made  the  wavy  lengths  once  speak 
The  grateful  worship  of  a  rescued  soul. 
The  angel  paused  before  the  open  door 
To  give  good-day.    "Come  in,"  said  Agatha. 
I  followed  close,  and  watched  and  listened  there. 
The  angel  was  a  lady,  noble,  young, 
Taught  in  all  seemliuess  that  fits  a  court, 
All  lore  that  shapes  the  mind  to  delicate  use. 
Yet  quiet,  lowly,  as  a  meek  white  dove 
That  with  its  presence  teaches  gentleness. 
Men  called  her  Countess  Linda;  little  girls 
In  Freiburg  town,  orphaus  whom  she  caressed, 
16  B 


18  AGATHA. 

Said  Mamma  Liiula:  yet  her  years  were  few, 
Her  outward  beauties  all  in  budding  time, 
Iler  virtues  the  aroma  of  the  plant 
That  dwells  in  nil  its  being,  root,  stem,  leaf, 
And  waits  not  ripeness. 

"Sit,"  paid  Agatha. 
Ilcr  cousins  were  at  work  In  neighboring  liomcs, 
But  yet  she  was  not  lonely  ;  all  things  round 
Seemed  filled  with  noiseless  yet  responsive  life, 
As  of  a  child  at  breast  that  gently  clings: 
Not  sunlight  only  or  the  breathing  flowers 
Or  the  swift  shadows  of  llic  birds  and  bees, 
But  all  the  houseliold  goods,  which,  polished  fair 
By  hands  that  cherished  them  for  service  done. 
Shone  as  with  glad  content.     The  wooden  beams 
Darkjand  yet  friendly,  easy  to  be  reached. 
Bore  three  white  crosses  for  a  speaking  sign; 
The  walls  had  little  pictures  hung  a-row. 
Telling  the  stories  of  Saint  Ursula, 
And  Saint  Elizabeth,  the  lowly  queen; 
And  on  the  bench  that  served  for  table  too, 
Skirting  the  wall  to  save  the  narrow  space, 
There  lay  the  Catholic  hookey  inherited 
From  those  old  times  when  printing  still  was  young 
With  stout-limbed  promise,  like  a  sturdy  boy. 
And  in  the  farthest  corner  stood  the  bed 
Where  o'er  the  pillow  hung  two  pictures  wiealhed 
With  fresh-plucked  ivy:  one  the  Virgin's  death, 
And  one  her  flowering  tomb,  while  high  above 
She  smiling  bends  and  lets  her  girdle  down 
For  ladder  to  tlie  soul  that  cannot  trust 
lu  life  which  outlasts  burial.     Agatha 
Sat  at  her  knitting,  aged,  upright,  slim, 
And  spoke  her  welcome  with  mild  dignity. 
She  kept  the  company  of  kings  and  queens 
And  mitred  saints  who  sat  below  the  feet 
Of  Francis  with  the  ragged  frock  and  wounds ; 
And  Rank  for  her  meant  Duty,  various, 
Yet  equal  in  its  worth,  done  worthily. 
Command  was  service ;  humblest  service  done 
By  willing  and  discerning  souls  was  glory. 
Fair  Countess  Linda  sat  upon  the  bench, 
Close  fronting  the  old  knitter,  and  they  talked 
With  sweet  antipliony  of  young  and  old. 

Agatha. 

You  like  our  valley,  lady?    I  am  glad 

Yon  thought  it  well  to  come  again.    But  rest — 

The  walk  is  long  from  Master  Michael's  inn. 

CotrKTKSS  Linda. 
Yes,  but  no  walk  is  prettier. 

AOATUA. 

It  is  true : 
There  lacks  no  blessing  here,  the  waters  all 
llave  virtues  like  the  garments  of  the  Lord, 


AGATHA.  19 


And  heal  much  sickness;  then,  the  crops  and  cows 

Ffonrish  past  speaking,  and  the  garden  flowers, 

Pink,  blue,  and  ])urp1c,  'tis  a  joy  lo  see 

How  they  yield  honey  for  the  singing  bees. 

I  would  the  wliole  world  were  as  good  a  home. 

Countess  Linda. 

And  you  are  well  off,  Agatha?— your  friends 
Left  you  a  certain  bread  :  is  it  not  so? 

AOATUA. 

Not  so  at  all,  dear  lady.    I  had  nought. 

Was  a  poor  orphan ;  but  I  came  to  tend 

Here  in  tliis  house,  au  old  afflicted  pair, 

Who  wore  out  slowly;  and  the  last  who  died, 

Full  thirty  years  ago,  left  me  this  roof 

And  all  the  liousehold  stuff.    It  was  great  wealth ; 

And  so  I  had  a  home  for  Kate  and  Nell. 

Countess  Linda. 

But  how,  then,  liave  you  earned  your  daily  bread 
These  thirty  years? 

Agatha. 

O,  that  is  easy  earning. 
We  help  the  neighbors,  and  our  bit  and  sup 
Is  never  tailing:  they  have  work  for  us 
In  house  and  field,  all  sorts  of  odds  and  cuds, 
Patching  and  mending,  turning  o'er  the  hay. 
Holding  sick  children— there  is  always  work; 
And  they  are  very  good — the  neighbors  are: 
Weigh  not  our  bits  of  work  with  weight  and  scale, 
But  glad  themselves  with  giving  us  good  shares 
Of  meat  and  drink;  and  iu  the  big  farm-house 
When  cloth  comes  home  from  weaving,  the  good  wife 
Cuts  me  a  jjiece— this  very  gown — and  says: 
"Here,  Agatha,  you  old  maid,  you  have  time 
To  pray  for  Hans  who  is  gone  soldiering: 
The  saints  might  help  him,  and  they've  much  to  do, 
'Twere  well  they  were  besought  to  think  of  him." 
She  spoke  half  jesting,  but  I  pray,  I  pray 
For  poor  young  Hans.     I  take  it  much  to  heart 
That  other  people  are  worse  off  than  I — 
I  ease  my  soul  with  praying  for  them  all. 

CotiNTEGG  Linda. 

That  is  your  way  of  singing,  Agatha; 

Just  as  the  nightingales  pour  forth  sad  songs, 

And  when  they  reach  men's  ears  they  make  men's  hearts 

Feel  the  more  kindly. 

Agatha. 

Nay,  I  cannot  sing: 
My  voice  is  hoarse,  and  oft  I  think  my  prayers 
Are  foolish,  feeble  things ;  for  Christ  is  good 
Whether  I  pray  or  not— the  Virgin's  heart 
Is  kinder  far  than  mine;  and  then  I  stop 


20  AGATUA. 

Ai)(l  feci  I  can  do  non^ht  towards  liclpini^  men, 
Till  out  it  comes,  like  tears  that  will  not  hold, 
And  I  must  pray  again  for  all  the  world. 
'TIs  good  to  me — 1  mean  the  neighbors  arc: 
To  Kate  and  Nell  too.     I  have  money  saved 
To  go  ou  pilgrimage  the  second  lime. 

ConNTKSS  Linda. 

And  do  yon  mean  to  go  ou  pilgrimage 
With  all  your  years  to  carry,  Agatha? 

AOATIIA. 

The  years  are  light,  dear  lady:  'lis  my  sins 
Are  heavier  than  I  would.    And  I  shall  go 
All  the  way  to  Eiusiedehi  with  that  load: 
I  need  to  work  it  off. 

,   CouNTRBS  Linda. 

What  sort  of  8in.«, 
Dear  Agatha?    I  think  they  must  be  small. 

AOATHA. 

Nay,  but  they  may  be  greater  than  I  know; 

'Tis  but  dim  light  I  see  by.    So  I  try 

All  ways  I  know  of  to  be  cleansed  and  pure. 

I  would  not  sink  where  evil  spirits  arc. 

There's  perfect  goodness  somewhere:  so  I  strive. 

CouNTKSS  Linda. 

You  were  the  better  for  that  pilgrimage 
Yon  made  before?    The  shrine  is  beautiful; 
And  then  yon  saw  fresh  conntry  all  the  way. 

Agatua. 

Yes,  that  is  true.    And  ever  since  that  time 

The  world  seems  greater,  and  the  Holy  Charch 

More  wonderful.    The  blessed  pictures  all, 

The  heavenly  images  with  books  and  wings, 

Are  company  to  me  through  the  day  and  night. 

The  time !  the  time  !    It  never  seemed  far  back, 

Only  to  father's  father  and  his  kin 

That  lived  before  him.    But  the  time  stretched  out 

After  that  pilgrimage :  I  seemed  to  see 

Far  back,  and  yet  I  knew  time  lay  behind, 

As  there  are  countries  lying  still  behind 

The  highest  mountains,  there  in  Switzerland. 

O,  it  is  great  to  go  on  pilgrimage  I 

Countess  Linda. 
Perhaps  some  neighbors  will  be  pilgrims  too. 
And  you  can  start  together  in  a  band. 

AOATHA. 

Not  from  these  hills  :  people  are  busy  here, 
The  beasts  want  tendance.    One  who  is  not  missed 
Can  go  and  pray  for  others  who  must  work. 
I  owe  it  to  all  neighbors,  young  and  old ; 


AGATHA.  21 

For  they  are  good  past  thinking— lads  and  girls 

Given  to  mischief,  merry  naiiglitiness, 

Quiet  it,  lis  tlie  hedgehogs  smooth  their  epines. 

For  foar  of  hurting  poor  old  Agatha. 

'Tis  pretty:  why,  the  cherubs  iu  the  eky 

Look  young  and  merry,  and  the  angels  play 

On  citherns,  lutes,  and  all  sweet  iustruments. 

I  would  have  young  things  merry.     See  the  Lord  I 

A  little  baby  playing  with  the  birds ; 

And  how  the  Blessed  Mother  smiles  at  him. 

CoiTNTESs  Linda. 

I  think  you  are  too  happy,  Agatha, 

To  care  for  heaven.    Earth  contents  you  well. 

Agatua. 

Nay,  nay,  I  shall  be  called,  and  I  shall  go 

Right  willingly.    I  shall  get  helpless,  blind, 

Be  like  an  old  stalk  to  be  plucked  away : 

The  garden  must  be  cleared  for  young  spriiig  plants. 

Tis  home  beyond  the  grave,  the  most  are  there, 

All  those  we  pray  to,  all  the  Church's  lights— 

And  poor  old  souls  are  welcome  in  their  rags: 

One  sees  it  by  the  pictures.    Good  Saint  Ann, 

The  Virgin's  mother,  she  is  very  old. 

And  had  her  troubles  with  her  husband  too. 

Poor  Kate  and  Nell  are  younger  far  than  I, 

But  they  will  have  this  roof  to  cover  them. 

I  shall  go  willingly;   and  willingness 

Makes  the  yoke  easy  and  the  burden  light. 

Countess  Linda. 

When  you  go  southward  in  your  pilgrimage. 

Come  to  see  me  in  Freiburg,  Agatha. 

Where  you  have  friends  you  should  not  go  to  inns. 

Aqatua. 

Yes,  I  will  gladly  come  to  see  you,  lady. 
And  you  will  give  me  sweet  hay  for  a  bed, 
And  in  the  morning  I  shall  wake  betimes 
Aud  start  when  all  the  birds  begin  to  sing. 

CouNTKSS  Linda. 

You  wear  your  smart  clothes  on  the  pilgrimage. 
Such  pretty  clothes  as  all  the  women  here 
Keep  by  them  for  their  best :  a  velvet  cap 
And  collar  golden-broidered  ?    They  look  well 
On  old  and  young  alike. 

Agatua. 

Nay,  I  have  none— 
Never  had  better  clothes  than  these  you  see. 
Good  clothes  are  pretty,  but  one  sees  them  best 
When  others  wear  them,  and  I  somehow  thought 
'Twas  not  worth  while.    I  had  so  many  things 
More  than  some  neighbors,  I  was  partly  shy 


22  AGATHA. 

Of  wenring  better  clothes  than  thoy,  nnd  now 
I  am  CO  old  and  custom  is  so  stn)nf^ 
'Twould  hui't  me  sore  to  put  on  liiiciy. 

CouNTKss  Linda. 

Your  gray  hair  is  a  crown,  dear  Agatha. 

Shake  liaiids;  good-bye.    The  sun  is  going  down, 

And  I  must  see  the  glory  from  tlie  hill. 

I  stayed  among  those  hills;   and  oft  heard  more 
Of  Agatha.     I  liked  to  hear  her  name, 
As  that  of  one  lialf  grandamc  and  half  saint, 
Uttered  with  reverent  playfulness.    The  lads 
And  younger  men  all  called  her  mother,  aunt,. 
Or  granny,  with  their  pet  diminutives. 
And  bade  their  lasses  and  their  l)rides  behave 
Kight  well  to  one  wlio  surely  made  a  link 
'Twixt  faulty  folk  and  God  by  loving  both  : 
Not  one  but  counted  service  done  by  her, 
Asking  no  pay  save  just  her  daily  bread. 
At  feasts  and  weddings,  when  they  passed  iu  groups 
Along  the  vale,  and  the  good  country  wine, 
Being  vocal  in  them,  made  them  quire  along 
In  quaintly  mingled  mirtli  and  piety, 
They  fain  must  jest  and  play  some  friendly  trick 
On  three  old  maids ;  but  when  the  moment  came 
Always  they  bated  breath  and  made  their  sport 
Oenile  as  feather-stroke,  that  Agatha 
Might  like  the  waking  for  the  love  it  showed. 
Their  song  made  happy  music  'mid  the  hills, 
For  nature  tuned  their  race  to  harmony, 
And  poet  Hans,  the  tailor,  wrote  them  songs 
That  grew  from  out  their  life,  as  crocuses 
From  out  the  meadow's  moistness.     'Twas  his  song 
They  often  sang,  wending  homeward  from  a  feast — 
The  song  I  give  you.    It  brings  in,  you  see. 
Their  gentle  jesting  with  the  ihree  old  maids. 

Midnight  by  the  chai>el  bell  1 
Homeward,  homeward  all,  farewell  I 
I  with  you,  and  you  with  me. 
Miles  are  short  with  company. 

Heart  of  Mary,  bless  the  way. 

Keep  us  all  by  night  and  day  ! 

Moon  and  stars  at  feast  with  night 
Now  have  drunk  their  fill  of  light. 
Home  they  hurry,  making  time 
Trot  apace,  like  merry  rhyme. 

Heart  of  Mary,  niitufic  rose. 
Send  ?ts  all  a  sweet  repose  ! 

Swiftly  through  the  wood  down  hill, 
Kuu  till  you  can  hear  the  mill. 
Toni's  ghost  is  wandering  now. 
Shaped  just  like  a  snow-wliite  cow. 

Heart  of  Mary,  tiwrninfj  star. 

Ward  off  danger,  near  or  far  I 


AGATHA.  23 


Toni's  wagon  with  its  load 
Fell  and  cnisiicd  liim  in  the  road 
'Twixt  tliete  piuc-tiees.     Nevei-  fear! 
Give  a  iiuighljoi's  ghost  good  cheer. 
UiAij  Babe,  oxir  God  and  Brother, 
Bind  us  fast  to  one  another  I 

Hark!  the  mill  is  at  its  work, 

Now  we  pags  beyond  the  murk 

To  the  hollow,  where  the  moon 

Makes  her  silvery  afternoon. 

Good  Saint  Joseph,  faithful  spouse, 
Help  us  all  to  keep  our  vows! 
♦ 

Ilere  the  three  old  maidens  dwell, 

Agatha  and  Kate  and  Nell ; 

See,  the  moon  shines  on  the  thatch, 

We  will  go  and  shake  the  latch. 
Heart  of  Manj,  cup  of  joy. 
Give  us  mirth  loithout  alloy  I 

Hnsh,  'tis  here,  no  noise,  sing  low. 

Rap  with  gentle  knuckles — so! 

Like  the  little  tapping  birds, 

On  the  door;  then  sing  good  words. 
Meeli  Saint  Anna,  old  and  fair, 
Hallow  all  tli£  snow-white  hair! 

Little  maidens  old,  sweet  dreams! 

Sleep  one  sleep  till  morning  beams. 

Mothers  ye,  who  help  ns  all, 

Qnick  at  hand,  if  ill  befall. 
Holy  Gabriel,  lily-laden. 
Bless  the  aged  mother-maiden  ! 

Forward,  mount  the  broad  hillside 
Swift  as  soldiers  when  they  ride. 
See  the  two  towers  how  they  peep, 
Round-capped  giants,  o'er  the  steep. 
Heart  of  Uai-y,  by  thy  sorrow. 
Keep  ua  tqyriglit  through  the  morrow! 

Now  they  rise  quite  suddenly 

Like  a  man  from  bended  knee, 

Now  Saint  Miirgen  is  in  sight, 

Here  the  roads  bianch  off— good-night ! 
Heart  of  Mary,  by  thy  grace, 
Give  us  with  the  saints  a  place! 


186S. 


ARMGART. 


SCENE  I. 

Salon  lit  tvith  lamps  and  ornamented  with  green  plants.  An  open  piano,  loith 
many  scattered  sheets  of  music.  Bronze  busts  of  Beethoven  and  Glitck  mi  pillars 
opposite  each  other,  A  small  table  spread  with  supper.  To  PrXulkin  Wal- 
PUKO.V,  who  advances  with  a  slight  lameness  of  gait  frovi  an  adjoining  room,  erv- 
tera  Guap  Dounbekg  at  the  oppiosite  door  in  a  travelling  dress. 

Graf. 

Good-inoruiug;,  Friiuleiu  ! 

Walvubga. 

What,  so  soon  rctiinied  ? 
I  feared  your  mission  Itept  you  still  at  Prague. 

Graf. 

But  now  arrived!    You  see  my  travelling  dress. 
I  hurried  from  the  panting,  roaring  steam 
Like  any  courier  of  embassy 
Who  hides  the  fleuds  of  war  within  his  bag. 

Walpuuqa. 
You  know  that  Arnigart  sings  to-night? 

Gbaf. 

Has  sung! 
'Tis  close  on  half-past  nine.    The  Orpheus 
Lasts  not  so  long.     Iler  spirits — were  they  high? 
Was  Leo  confident? 

Wai.pdeoa. 

lie  only  feared 
Some  tamcness  at  beginning.     Let  the  house 
Once  ring,  he  said,  with  plaudits,  she  is  safe. 

Graf. 

And  Armgart? 

Walphuqa. 

She  was  stiller  than  her  wont. 
Cut  once,  at  some  such  trivial  word  of  mine. 
As  that  the  highest  prize  might  yet  be  won 
By  her  who  took  the  second— she  was  roused. 
"For  me,"  she  said,  "1  triumph  or  I  fail. 
I  never  strove  for  any  second  prize." 


ARMGART.  25 


Graf. 

Poor  liunian-hearted  singing-bird !    She  bears 

Cfesar's  ambition  in  her  delicate  breast, 

And  nought  to  still  it  with  but  quivering  song  I 

Wai.pdroa. 

I  had  not  for  the  world  been  there  to-night: 
Unreasonable  dread  oft  chills  me  more 
Thau  any  reasonable  hope  can  warm. 

GUAF. 

You  have  a  rare  affection  for  your  cousin; 
As  tender  as  a  sister's. 

WALruRGA. 

Nay,  I  fear 
My  love  is  little  more  than  what  I  felt 
For  happy  stories  when  I  was  a  child. 
She  fills  my  life  that  would  be  empty  else, 
And  lifts  my  nought  to  value  by  her  side. 

Graf. 
She  is  reason  good  enough,  or  seems  to  be, 
Why  all  were  boru  whose  being  ministers 
To  her  completeness.    Is  it  most  her  voice 
Subdues  usf  or  her  instinct  exquisite, 
Informing  each  old  strain  witli  some  new  grace 
Which  takes  our  sense  like  any  natural  good? 
Or  most  her  spiritual  energy 
That  sweeps  us  in  the  current  of  her  song? 

WALrCRGA. 

I  know  not.    Losing  either,  we  should  lose 
That  whole  we  call  our  Arnigart.    For  herself, 
She  often  wonders  what  her  life  had  been 
Without  that  voice  for  channel  to  her  soul. 
She  says,  it  must  have  leaped  through  all  her  limbs- 
Made  her  a  Msenad — made  her  snatch  a  brand 
And  fire  some  forest,  that  her  rage  might  mount 
In  crashing,  roaring  flames  through  half  a  laud, 
Leaving  her  still  and  patient  for  a  while. 
"  Poor  wretch  !"  she  says,  of  any  murderess— 
"The  world  was  cruel,  and  she  could  not  sing: 
I  carry  my  revenges  in  my  throat ; 
I  love  in  singing,  and  am  loved  again." 

Graf. 

Mere  mood !  I  cannot  yet  believe  it  more. 
Too  much  ambition  has  unwomaued  her; 
But  only  for  a  while.     Iler  nature  hide.s 
One  half  its  treasures  by  its  very  wealth, 
Taxing  the  hours  to  show  it. 

Walpukga. 

Hark!  she  comes. 


26  AKMGAKT. 

Enter  Lko  with  a  vfreath  in  his  hand,  lioUling  the  cionr  open  for  Aunoaut,  wlio  wears 
a  furred  mantle  a7id  hood.  She  is  followed  by  her  maid,  carrying  an  armful  of 
bouquets. 

Lko. 
Place  for  the  queen  of  Hoiig  ! 

GuAP  (advancing  towards  Armoaut,  trho  throws  off  her  hood  and  mantle,  and  shows 

a  star  of  brilliants  in  her  hair). 

A  triumph,  then. 
You  will  not  be  n  iiigganl  of  your  joy 
And  chide  the  eagerness  that  came  to  share  it. 

Abmqart. 

0  kind  1  you  hastened  your  return  for  me. 

1  would  you  had  been  there  to  hear  me  sing  ! 
Walpurga,  kiss  me:  never  tremble  more 

Lejit  Armgart's  wing  should  fail  her.    She  has  found 
This  night  the  region  where  her  rapture  breathes — 
Pouring  her  passion  on  the  nir  made  live 
With  human  heart-throbs.    Tell  them,  Leo,  tell  them 
How  I  outsang  your  hope  and  made  you  cry 
Because  Gluck  could  not  hear  me.    That  was  folly ! 
He  sang,  uot  listened:  every  linked  note 
Was  his  immortal  pulse  that  stirred  in  mine, 
And  all  my  gladness  is  but  part  of  him. 
Give  me  the  wreath. 

[Sfie  crowns  the  bust  of  Gluok 

Lko  (sardonically). 

Ay,  ay,  but  mark  you  this: 
It  was  not  part  of  him— that  trill  you  made 
lu  spite  of  me  and  reason  I 

AlUIOABT. 

You  were  wrong — 
Dear  Leo,  you  were  wrong:  the  house  was  held 
As  if  a  stornj  were  listening  with  delight 
And  hushed  its  thuuder. 

Lko. 

Will  you  a?k  the  house 
To  teach  you  singing?    Quit  your  Orpheus  then. 
And  sing  in  farces  grown  to  operas, 
Where  all  the  i)rurience  of  the  full-fed  mob 
Is  tickled  with  melodic  im])udence: 
Jerk  forth  burlesque  bravnras,  square  your  arms 
Akinil)0  with  a  tavern  wench's  grace, 
And  set  the  splendid  cunipass  of  your  voice 
To  lyric  jigs.     Go  to!  I  thought  you  meant 
To  be  an  artist— lift  your  auilit-nie 
To  see  your  visiiui,  uot  trick  forth  a  show 
To  please  the  grossest  taste  of  grossest  numbers. 

AuiiGAET  {taking  up  Leo's  hand,  and  kissing  it). 

Pardon,  good  Leo,  I  am  penitent. 

I  will  do  penance:  sing  a  hundred  trills 


AUMGART.  27 

Into  a  deep-clug  grave,  then  burying  them 
As  one  did  Midas'  secret,  rid  myself 
Of  naughty  exultation.    O  I  trilled 
At  nature's  iirompting,  like  the  nightingales. 
*         Go  scold  them,  dearest  Leo. 

Lbo. 

I  stop  my  ears. 
Nature  in  Gluclc  inspiring  Orpheus, 
lias  done  with  nightingales.    Are  bird-beaks  lips? 

Geaf. 

Truce  to  rebukes !    Tell  us— who  were  not  there— 
The  double  drama:  how  the  expectant  house 
Took  the  first  notes. 

Wai.vuuqa  {turning  from  her  occupation  of  decking  the  room  with  the  flowers). 

Yes,  tell  us  all,  dear  Armgart. 
Did  you  feel  tremors?    Leo,  hoAV  did  she  look? 
Was  there  a  cheer  to  greet  her? 

Leo. 

Not  a  sound. 
She  walked  like  Orpheus  in  his  solitude. 
And  seemed  to  sec  nought  but  what  no  man  saw. 
'Twas  famous.    Not  the  Schroeder-Devrient 
Uad  done  it  better.    But  your  blessed  public 
Had  never  any  judgment  in  cold  blood — 
Thinks  all  perhaps  were  better  otherwise. 
Till  rapture  brings  a  reason. 

Abmqakt  {scornfully). 

I  knew  that  I 
The  women  whispered,  "Not  a  pretty  face!" 
The  men,  "Well,  well,  a  goodly  length  of  limb: 
She  bears  the  chiton."— It  were  all  the  same 
Were  I  the  Virgin  Mother  and  my  stage 
The  opening  heavens  at  the  Judgment-day: 
Gossips  would  peep,  jog  elbows,  rate  the  price 
Of  such  a  woman  in  the  social  mart. 
What  were  the  drama  of  the  world  to  them, 
Unless  they  felt  the  hell-prong? 

Leo. 

Peace,  now,  peace ! 
I  hate  my  phrases  to  be  smothered  o'er 
With  sauce  of  paraphrase,  my  sober  tune 
Made  bass  to  rambling  trebles,  showering  down 
In  endless  demi-semi-quavers. 

Abuoast  {taking  a  bon-lon  from  the  table,  uplifliiig  it  before  putting  it  into  her 

mouth,  and  turning  away). 

Mum! 

Gkaf. 
Ye8,  tell  us  all  the  glory,  leave  the  blame. 


28  AUMGART. 


Walpdrqa. 

You  first,  dear  Leo— what  you  saw  and  heard; 

Theu  Armgart— she  must  tell  us  what  she  felt.  - 

Leo. 

Well !    The  first  uotea  came  clearly,  firmly  forth, 

And  I  was  easy,  for  behind  those  rills 

I  knew  there  was  a  fountain.     I  could  see 

The  house  was  breathing  gently,  heads  were  still ; 

Parrot  opinion  was  sinick  meekly  mute, 

And  human  hearts  were  swelling.    Armgart  stood 

As  if  the  had  been  new-created  there 

And  found  her  voice  which  found  a  melody. 

The  minx!    Qluck  had  not  written,  nor  I  taught: 

Orpheus  was  Armgart,  Armgart  Orpheus. 

Well,  well,  all  through  the  nceiia  I  could  feel 

The  silence  tremble  now,  now  poise  itself 

With  added  weight  of  feeling,  till  at  last 

Delight  o'er-toppled  it.    The  final  note 

Had  happy  drowning  in  the  unloosed  roar 

That  surged  and  ebbed  and  ever  surged  again, 

Till  expectation  kept  it  pent  awhile 

Ere  Orpheus  returned.    Pfni !    He  was  changed: 

My  demi-god  was  pale,  had  downcast  eyes 

That  quivered  like  a  bride's  who  fain  would  send 

Backward  the  rising  tear. 

An.MQAUT  {advancing,  hut  then  ttirning  away,  as  if  to  check  her  speech). 

I  was  a  bride, 
As  nuns  are  at  their  spousals. 

Leo. 

Ay,  my  lady, 
That  moment  will  not  come  again :  applause 
May  come  and  plenty ;  but  the  first,  first  draught ! 

(Sna2}s  Iiis  fuirfer«.) 
Music  has  sounds  for  it— I  know  no  words. 
I  felt  it  once  myself  when  they  performed 
My  overture  to  Siutram.     Well!  'tis  strange, 
We  know  not  pain  from  pleasure  in  such  joy. 

Aemgaet  {turning  quickly). 

Oh,  pleasure  has  cramped  dwelling  in  our  souls. 
And  when  full  Being  comes  must  call  on  paiu 
To  lend  it  liberal  space. 

WAI.rCKGA. 

I  hope  the  house 
Kept  a  reserve  of  plaudits:  I  am  jealous 
Lest  they  had  dulled  themselves  for  coming  good 
That  should  have  seemed  the  better  and  the  best. 

Leo. 

No,  'twas  ft  revel  where  they  had  but  quaffed 
'I'heir  opening  cup.    I  Ih.ink  the  artist's  star, 


AHMGART.  29 

His  audience  keeps  not  sober:  once  afire, 

They  flame  towards  climax,  though  his  merit  hold 

But  fairly  eveu. 

Aemgaet  (her  hand  on  Lko's  arm). 

Now,  now,  conTess  the  truth; 
I  saug  still  better  to  the  very  end — 
All  save  tlie  trill;  I  give  th:it  up  to  you. 
To  bite  and  growl  at.    Why,  you  said  yourself, 
Each  time  I  sang,  it  seemed  new  doors  were  oped 
That  you  might  hear  heaven  clearer. 

Leo  ^shaking  his  finger). 

I  was  raving. 

Armgakt. 
I  am  not  glad  with  that  mean  vanity 
Which  knows  no  good  beyond  its  appetite 
Full  feasting  upon  ])raise!    I  am  only  glad. 
Being  praised  for  wliat  I  know  is  worth  the  praise; 
Glad  of  the  proof  that  I  myself  have  part 
In  what  I  worship  !    At  the  last  applause- 
Seeming  a  roar  of  tropic  winds  that  tossed 
The  handkerchiefs  and  many-colored  flowers, 
Falling  like  shattered  rainbows  all  around— 
Thiuk  you  I  felt  myself  a  jn-ima  dunnaf 
No,  but  a  happy  spiritual  star 
Sucli  as  old  Dante  saw,  wrought  in  a  rose 
Of  light  in  Paradise,  whose  only  self 
Was  consciousness  of  glory  wide-difi'used, 
Music,  life,  power — I  moving  in  the  midst 
With  a  sublime  necessity  of  good. 

Leo  (^with  a  shrug). 
I  thought  it  was  a  prima  donna  came 
Within  the  side-scenes;  ay,  and  she  was  proud 
To  find  the  bouquet  from  the  royal  box 
Enclosed  a  jewel-case,  and  proud  to  wear 
A  star  of  brilliants,  quite  an  earthly  star, 
Valued  by  thalers.    Come,  my  lady,  own 
Ambition  has  five  senses,  and  a  self 
That  gives  it  good  warm  lodging  when  it  sinks 
Plump  down  from  ecstasy. 

Armoaiit. 

Owii  it?  why  not? 
Am  1  a  sage  whose  words  must  fall  like  seed 
Silently  buried  toward  a  far-off  spring? 
I  sing  to  living  men,  and  my  effect 
Is  like  the  summer's  sun,  that  ripens  corn 
Or  now  or  never.    If  the  world  brings  me  gifts, 
Gold,  incense,  myrrh — 'twill  be  the  needful  sign 
That  I  have  stirred  it  as  the  liigh  year  stirs 
Before  I  sink  to  winter. 

GUAI'. 

Ecstasies 
Are  short — most  happily  !    We  should  but  lose 


30  ARMGART. 

Were  Arm£;art  borne  too  commonly  and  long 
Out  of  the  gclf  that  charms  us.    t'ouUl  I  choose, 
She  were  less  apt  to  soar  beyond  the  reach 
Of  woman's  foibles,  innocent  vanities, 
Fondness  for  trifles  like  that  pretty  star 
Twinkling  beside  her  cloud  of  ebon  hair. 

AtiMGART  {taking  out  the  gem  and  looking  at  it). 

Tliis  little  star'.    I  would  it  were  the  seed 

Of  a  whole  IMilky  Way,  if  such  bright  sliimmer 

Were  the  sole  speech  men  told  their  rapture  with 

At  Armgart's  music.     Shall  I  turn  aside 

From  splendors  which  flash  out  the  glow  I  make, 

And  live  to  make,  in  all  the  chosen  breasts 

Of  half  a  continent  ?    No,  may  it  come, 

That  splendor !    May  the  day  be  near  when  mcu 

Tliiuk  much  to  let  my  horses  draw  me  home, 

And  new  lands  welcome  me  upon  their  beach, 

Loving  me  for  my  fame.    That  is  the  truth 

Of  what  I  wish,  nay,  yearn  for.    Shall  I  lie? 

Pretend  to  seek  obscurity — to  sing 

In  hope  of  disregard?    A  vile  pretence! 

And  blasphemy  besides.    For  what  is  fame 

But  the  benignant  strength  of  One,  transformed 

To  joy  of  Many?    Tributes,  plaudits  come 

As  necessary  breathing  of  such  joy; 

And  may  they  come  to  me! 

Gbaf. 

The  auguries 
Point  clearly  that  way.    Is  it  no  ofience 
To  wish  the  eagle's  wing  may  find  repose, 
As  feebler  wings  do,  in  a  quiet  nest  1 
Or  has  the  taste  of  fame  already  turned 
The  Woman  to  a  Muse.  .  .  . 

Lko  (going  to  the  table). 

Who  needs  no  supper. 
I  am  her  priest,  ready  to  eat  hor  share 
Of  good  Walpurga's  oflerings. 

Walpuuga. 

Armgart,  come. 
Graf,  will  yon  come  ? 

Geaf. 
Thanks,  I  play  truant  here. 
And  must  retrieve  my  self-indulged  delay. 
But  will  the  Muse  receive  a  votary 
At  any  hour  to-morrow? 

AUMQART. 

Any  hour 
After  rehearsal,  after  twelve  at  uoon. 


ARMGART.  31 


SCENE  II. 

The  same  Salon,  morning.    Armoart  seated,  in  her  bonnet  and  ivalking  dress.     The 
Graf  standing  near  her  against  the  piano. 

Graf. 

Armp;nrt,  to  many  minds  tlie  first  success 

Is  rciiaoii  for  desisting.    I  have  known 

A  man  so  versatile,  he  tried  all  arte, 

But  when  in  each  by  turns  he  had  achieved 

Just  so  much  mastery  as  made  men  say, 

"He  could  be  king  here  if  lie  would,"  he  threw 

The  lauded  skill  aside.    "He  hates,"  said  one, 

"  The  level  of  achieved  iire-emineuce, 

He  must  be  conquering  Blill ;"'  but  others  said — 

Ar.MQART. 

The  truth,  I  hope  :  he  had  a  meagre  soul, 
Holding  no  depth  where  love  could  root  itself. 
"  Could  if  he  would  ?"    True  greatness  ever  wills- 
It  lives  in  wholeness  if  it  live  at  all. 
And  all  its  strength  is  knit  with  constancy. 

Graf. 
He  used  to  say  himself  he  was  too  sane 
To  give  his  life  away  for  excellence 
Which  yet  must  stand,  an  ivory  statuette 
Wrought  to  perfection  through  long  lonely  years, 
Huddled  in  the  mart  of  mediocrities. 
He  said,  the  very  finest  doing  wins 
The  admiring  only ;  but  to  have  undone, 
Promise  and  not  fulfil,  like  buried  youth, 
Wins  all  the  envious,  makes  them  sigh  your  name 
As  tliat  fair  Absent,  blameless  Possible, 
Which  could  alone  impassion  them ;  and  thus, 
Serene  negation  has  free  gift  of  all. 
Panting  achievement  struggles,  is  denied. 
Or  wins  to  lose  again.     What  say  you,  Armgart  ? 
Truth  has  rough  flavors  if  we  bite  it  through; 
I  think  this  sarcasm  came  from  out  its  core 
Of  bitter  irony. 

Armgakt. 

It  is  the  truth 
Mean  souls  select  to  feed  upon.     What  then  ? 
Their  meanness  is  a  truth,  which  I  will  spurn. 
Tho  praise  I  seek  lives  not  in  envious  breath 
Using  my  name  to  blight  another's  deed. 
I  sing  for  love  of  soug  and  that  renown 
Which  is  the  spreading  act,  the  world-wide  share. 
Of  good  that  I  was  born  with.    Had  I  failed — 
Well,  that  had  been  a  truth  most  pitiable. 
I  cannot  bear  to  think  what  life  would  be 
With  high  hope  shrunk  to  endurance,  stunted  aims 
Like  broken  lances  ground  to  eating-knives, 
A  self  sunk  down  to  look  with  level  eyes 
At  low  achievement,  doomed  from  day  to  day 
To  distaste  of  its  consciousness.    But  I — 


33  ARMGART. 

Git  AT. 

Have  won,  not  lost,  in  yonr  decisive  tlirow, 
And  I  too  glory  in  tliis  issue;  yet, 
Tlic  i)ul)lic  verdict  has  no  potency 
To  sway  my  jiul,L,'mei]t  of  what  Aringart  is: 
Wy  lun-e  delight  in  hei-  would  bo  but  sullied, 
If  it  o'eiflowed  witli  mixture  of  men's  i)iai.-c. 
And  had  she  failed,  I  should  have  said,  "The  peai-1 
Remains  a  pearl  for  mc,  lellects  the  light 
With  the  same  titncss  that  lirst  charmed  my  gaze- 
Is, worth  as  line  a  setting  now  as  then." 

AiuiGABT  (risinfi). 

Oh,  you  are  good  !    But  why  will  you  rehearse 
The  talk  of  cynics,  who  with  iusect  eyes 
Explore  the  secrets  of  the  rubbish-heap? 
I  hate  your  epigrams  and  pointed  saws 
Whose  narrow  truth  is  but  broad  falsity. 
Confess  your  friend  was  shallow. 

GUAF. 

I  confess 
Life  is  not  rounded  in  an  epigram, 
And  saying  aught,  we  leave  a  world  unsaid. 
I  quoted,  merely  to  shape  forth  my  thought 
That  high  success  has  terrors  when  achieved— 
Like  preternatural  spouses  whose  dire  love 
Hangs  perilous  ou  slight  observances: 
Whence  it  were  possible  that  Armgart  crowned 
Might  turn  and  listen  to  a  pleading  voice, 
Though  Armgart  striving  in  the  race  was  deaf. 
You  said  you  dared  not  thiok  what  life  had  been 
Without  the  stamp  of  eminence ;  have  you  thought 
How  you  will  bear  the  poise  of  emiuence 
With  dread  of  sliding?    Paint  the  future  out 
As  an  unchecked  and  glorious  career, 
'Twill  grow  more  strenuous  by  the  very  love 
You  bear  to  excellence,  the  very  fate 
Of  human  powers,  which  tread  at  every  step 
On  possible  verges. 

Aemgakt. 

I  accept  the  peril. 
I  choose  to  walk  high  with  sublimer  dread 
Ifather  than  crawl  in  safety.     And,  besides, 
I  am  an  artist  as  you  are  a  noble: 
I  ought  to  bear  the  burdeu  of  my  rank. 

Gkaf. 

Such  parallels,  dear  Armgart,  are  but  snares 
To  catch  the  mind  with  seeming  argument — 
Small  baits  of  likeness  'mid  disjiarity. 
Men  rise  the  higher  as  their  task  is  high, 
The  task  being  well  achieved.    A  woman's  rank 
Lies  in  the  fulness  of  her  womanhood : 
Therein  alone  she  is  royal. 


ARMGART.  33 

Akmoakt. 


Yes,  I  know 
The  oft-tnnght  Goppel :  "  Woman,  thy  desire 
Shall  be  that  all  superlatives  on  earth 
Belong  to  men,  save  the  one  highest  kind — 
To  be  a  mother.    Thou  shalt  uot  desire 
To  do  aught  best  save  pure  subservience : 
Nature  has  willed  it  so!"    O  blessed  Nature! 
Let  her  be  arbitress;  she  gare  me  voice 
Such  as  she  only  gives  a  woman  child. 
Best  of  its  kind,  gave  me  ambition  too, 
That  sense  transcendent  which  can  taste  the  joy 
Of  swaying  multitudes,  of  being  adored 
For  such  achievement,  needed  excellence, 
As  man's  best  art  must  wait  for,  or  be  dumb. 
Wen  did  not  say,  when  I  had  sung  last  night, 
"'Twas  good,  nay,  wonderful,  considering 
She  is  a  woman" — and  then  turn  to  add, 
"  Tenor  or  baritone  had  sung  her  songs 
Better,  of  course:  she's  but  a  woman  spoiled." 
I  beg  your  pardon,  Graf,  you  said  it. 

GUAF. 

No! 
How  should  I  say  it,  Armgart?    I  who  own 
The  magic  of  your  nature-given  art 
As  sweetest  effluence  of  your  womanhood 
Which,  being  to  my  choice  the  best,  must  find 
The  best  of  utterance.     But  tliis  I  say : 
Your  fervid  youth  beguiles  you  ;  you  mistake 
A  strain  of  lyric  passion  for  a  life 
Which  in  the  spending  is  a  chronicle 
With  ugly  i)ages.    Trust  me,  Armgart,  trust  me  ; 
Ambition  exquisite  as  yours  wliich  soars 
Towards  something  quintessential  you  call  fame, 
Is  not  robust  enough  for  this  gross  world 
Whose  fame  is  dense  with  false  and  foolish  breath. 
Ardor,  a-twin  with  nice  refining  thought, 
Prepares  a  double  pain.     Pain  had  been  saved, 
Nay,  purer  glory  reached,  had  you  been  throned 
As  woman  only,  holding  all  your  art 
As  attribute  to  that  dear  sovereignty- 
Concentering  your  power  in  home  delights 
Which  penetrate  and  purify  the  world. 

Au.MGART. 

What !  leave  the  opera  with  my  part  ill-sung 

While  I  was  warbling  iu  a  drawing-room  ? 

Sing  iu  the  chimney-corner  to  inspire 

My  husband  reading  news?    Let  the  world  hear 

My  music  only  iu  his  moiniug  speech 

Less  stammciing  than  most  honorable  men's? 

No !  tell  me  that  my  song  is  poor,  my  art 

The  piteous  feat  of  weakness  aping  strength — 

That  were  fit  proem  to  your  argument 

Till  then,  I  am  an  artist  by  my  birth— 


34  AKMGART. 

By  the  pame  warrnnt  that  1  am  a  woman: 
Nay,  in  the  aikUul  rarer  <;ifi  I  see 
Supreme  vocation  ;  if  a  fonliict  come;;, 
Perisii— no,  not  the  woman,  but  the  joys 
Whicli  men  nialce  narrow  by  their  narrowness. 
Oh,  I  am  happy  1     The  great  masters  write 
For  women's  voices,  and  .i,'reat  Mnsic  wants  me! 
I  need  not  crush  myself  wiitiin  a  mould 
Of  theory  called  Nature:  I  Inive  room 
To  breathe  and  grow  uustunted. 

Graf. 

Armgart,  Iicar  me. 
I  meant  not  that  onr  talk  should  hurry  on 
To  .Mich  collision.     Foresight  of  the  ills 
Thick  shadowing  yonr  path,  drew  on  my  speech 
Beyond  intention.    True,  I  came  to  ask 
A  great  renunciation,  but  not  this 
Towards  which  my  words  at  first  perversely  strayed, 
As  if  in  memory  of  their  earlier  suit, 

Forgetful 

Arnigart,  do  you  remember  too?  the  snit 
Had  but  postponement,  was  not  quite  disdained— 
Was  told  to  wait  and  learn— what  it  has  learned— 
A  more  submissive  speech. 

Akmgakt  (with  some  agitation). 

Then  it  forgot 
Its  lesson  cruelly.    As  I  remember, 
'Twas  not  to  speak  save  to  the  artist  crowned, 
Nor  speak  to  her  of  casting  off  her  crown. 

GUAF. 

Nor  will  it,  Armgart.    I. come  not  to  seek 

Any  renunciation  save  the  wife's, 

Which  turns  away  from  other  ijossible  love 

Future  and  worthier,  to  take  his  love 

Who  asks  the  name  of  husband.     He  who  sought 

Armgart  obscure,  and  heard  her  answer,  "  Wair*'— 

May  come  without  suspicion  now  to  seek 

Armgart  applauded. 

AniioART  {turning  toioards  him). 

Yes,  without  suspicion 
Of  aught  save  what  consists  with  faithfulness 
In  all  expressed  intent.    Forgive  me,  Graf— 
I  anj  ungrateful  to  no  soul  that  loves  me— 
To  you  most  grateful.    Yet  the  best  intent 
Grasps  but  a  living  present  which  may  grow 
Like  any  unfledged  bird.     You  are  a  noble, 
And  have  a  high  career;  just  now  you  said 
'Twas  higher  far  than  aught  a  woman  seeks 
Beyond  mere  womanhood.    You  claim  to  be 
More  than  a  husband,  but  could  not  rejoice 
That  I  were  more  than  wife.    What  follows,  then? 
You  choosing  me  with  such  ;)ersistency 
As  is  but  stretched-out  rashness,  soon  must  And 


ARMGART.  35 

Our  martiaf^e  nsks  concessions,  asks  resolve 

To  share  reminciation  or  demand  it. 

Either  we  both  renounce  a  mutual  ease, 

As  iu  a  nation's  need  both  man  and  wife 

Do  public  services,  or  one  of  us 

Must  yield  that  something  el.«e  for  which  each  lives 

Besides  the  other.     Meu  are  reasoncrs : 

That  premi-ss  of  superior  claims  perforce 

Urges  conclusion— "  Armgart,  it  is  you." 

Gl-.AF. 

But  if  I  say  I  have  considered  this 

With  strict  prevision,  counted  all  the  cost 

Which  that  great  good  of  loving  you  demands — 

Questioned  my  stores  of  patience,  half  resolved 

To  live  resigned  without  a  bliss  who.ee  threat 

Touched  you  as  well  as  me— and  finally, 

With  impetus  of  undivided  will 

Eeturued  to  say,  "You  shall  be  free  as  now; 

Only  accept  the  refuge,  shelter,  guard. 

My  love  will  give  your  freedom  " — then  your  words 

Are  hard  accusal. 

Akmgap.t. 

Well,  I  accuse  myself. 
My  love  would  be  accomplice  of  your  will. 


Again — my  will  ? 


Gkaf. 


Ae.mgart. 


Oh,  your  unspoken  will. 
Your  silent  tolerance  would  torture  nie. 
And  on  that  rack  I  should  deny  the  good 
I  yet  believed  in. 

Gkaf. 

Then  I  am  the  man 
Whom  yon  would  love  ? 

Abmoabt. 

Whom  I  refuse  to  love ! 
No ;  I  will  live  alone  and  pour  my  pain 
With  passion  into  music,  where  it  turns 
To  what  is  best  within  my  better  self. 
I  will  not  take  for  husband  one  who  deems 
The  thing  my  soul  acknowledges  as  good — 
The  thing  I  hold  worth  striving,  sufl'eriug  for, 
To  be  a  thing  dispensed  with  easily, 
Or  else  the  idol  of  a  mind  infirm. 

GUAF. 

Armgart,  you  are  ungenerous  ;  you  strain 
My  thought  beyond  its  mark.    Our  diflerence 
Lies  not  so  deep  as  love— as  union 
Through  a  mysterious  fitness  that  transcends 
Formal  agreement. 


3G  ARMGAUT. 


Armoaist. 

It  lies  deep  cnmiph 
To  chafe  the  nnioii.    If  many  a  mwn 
Rcfraiiip,  doj^riidcil,  IVoni  the  utmost  ri'^ht. 
Because  the  pleading's  of  his  wife'.s  pniall  fears 
Are  little  serpents  bitinp;  at  his  heel, — 
How  shall  a  woman  keep  her  steadfastness 
IJeneath  a  frost  within  her  husband's  eyes 
Where  coldness  scorches  ?    Graf,  it  is  your  sorrow 
Tliat  you  love  Armsm't.    Nay,  it  is  her  sorrow 
That  she  may  not  love  you. 

GUA.P. 

Woman,  it  seems, 
Has  enviable  power  to  love  or  not 
According  to  her  will. 

AUMGAKT. 

She  has  the  will— 
I  have — who  am  one  woman— not  to  take 
Dnloyal  pledges  that  divide  her  will. 
The  man  who  marries  me  must  wed  my  Art — 
Honor  and  cherish  it,  not  tolerate. 

GSAP. 

The  man  is  yet  to  come  whose  theory 

Will  weigh  as  nought  with  you  against  his  love. 

Abmoaut. 
Whose  theory  will  plead  beside  his  love. 

Gkaf. 

Himself  a  singer,  then?  who  knows  no  life 
Out  (if  the  opera  boolis,  where  tenor  parts 
Arc  found  to  suit  hiraf 

Armgart. 

You  are  bitter,  Graf. 
Forgive  me;  seek  the  woman  you  deserve, 
All  grace,  all  goodness,  who  has  not  yet  found 
A  meaning  in  her  life,  nor  any  end 
Beyond  fulflUing  yours.    The  type  abounds. 

GttAF. 

And  happily,  for  the  world. 

Abmoart. 

Yes,  happily. 
Let  it  excuse  me  that  my  kind  is  rare: 
Commonness  is  its  own  security. 

GUAF. 

Armgart,  I  would  with  all  my  soul  I  knew 
The  man  so  rare  that  he  could  make  your  life 
As  woman  sweet  to  you,  as  artist  safe. 


AKMGAET.  37 


Armqaet. 


Oh,  I  can  live  unmated,  but  not  live 
Without  the  bliss  of  singing  to  the  world. 
And  feeling  all  my  world  respond  to  me. 

GllAT. 

May  it  be  lasting.    Then,  we  two  must  part? 

Armgakt. 
I  thank  you  from  my  heart  for  all.    Farewell! 


SCENE  ni. 

A  Year  Later. 

The  same  Salcn.    WALrnROA  is  standing  looking  totrards  the  u'indow  iaith  an  air 
0/  uneasiness.    Doctor  Gkaun. 

DOOTOR. 

Where  is  my  patient,  Franleiu  ? 

WALrUEOA. 

Fled !  escai>€d ! 
Gouc  to  rehearsal.    Is  it  dangerous  ? 

DOOTOB. 

No,  no;  her  throat  is  cured.     I  only  came 

To  hear  her  try  her  voice.     Had  she  yet  sung? 

Walpurga. 

No;  she  had  meant  to  wait  for  you.    She  said, 
"The  Doctor  has  a  right  to  my  first  song." 
Her  gratitude  was  full  of  little  plnns, 
But  all  were  swept  away  like  gathered  flowers 
By  sudden  storm.    She  saw  this  opera  bill — 
It  was  a  wasp  to  sting  her:  she  turned  pale, 
Snatched  up  her  hat  and  mufBers,  said  iu  haste, 
"I  go  to  Leo — to  rehearsal — none 
Shall  sing  Fidelio  to-night  but  me  !" 
Then  rushed  down-stairs. 

Doctor  [looking  at  his  ivatch). 

■   And  this,  not  long  ago? 

WALPUKaA. 


Barely  an  hour. 


Doctor. 
I  will  come  again. 


Ketnruing  from  Charlottenburg  at  one. 
Walpdeoa. 

Doctor,  I  feel  a  strange  preseutimeut. 
Are  you  quite  easy? 


88  AllilOAKT. 


DOOTOB. 

She  can  take  no  harm. 
'Twas  time  for  hci-  to  siii!^:  her  throat  is  well. 
It  was  a  tierce  attack,  and  dangerous ; 
I  had  to  use  strong  remedies,  but— well  I 
At  one,  dear  Friiulcin,  we  shall  meet  again. 


SCENE  IV. 
Two  UoDKS  Later. 

WALruKOA  starts  vj),  lookinr/  towards  the  door.  Aumoaut  enters,  foUorri'd  hi/  Lro. 
She  throws  herself  on  a  chair  tehieh  stands  with  its  hack  towards  the  door, 
8X>ecchless,  not  seeminr/  to  nee  anything.  AVat.pdroa  casts  a  questioning  terri- 
fied look  at  Leo.  He  sh7-ugs  his  shoulders,  and  lifts  vp  his  Jiands  hchind  Arm- 
GAKT,  who  8it8  like  a  helpless  image,  while  Walpckga.  takes  off  her  hat  and 
rnantle. 

WAi.ruuoA. 

Arnigart,  dear  Armgart  {kneeling  and  taking  her  hands), 

only  spealc  to  me. 
Your  poor  Walpurga.    Oli,  your  hands  arc  cold. 
Clasp  mine,  and  warm  them !    I  will  kiss  them  warm. 

(Ar.mgaut  looks  at  her  an  instant,  then  di-aws  aioay  her  hands,  and,  turning  aside, 

buries  her  face  against  the  back  of  the  chair,  Walpurga  rising  and  standing 

neoj;) 

(DooTOfi  GoAiiN  enters.) 

Doctor. 

News !  stirring  news  to-day !  wonders  come  thick. 

AcMOABT  {starting  up  at  the  first  sound  of  his  voice,  and  speaking  veliementli/). 

Yes,  thick,  thick,  thick!  and  you  have  murdered  it! 

Murdered  ray  voice — poisoned  the  soul  iu  mc, 

And  kept  me  living. 

You  never  told  me  that  your  cruel  cures 

Were  clogging  films— a  mouldy,  dead'ning  blight — 

A  lava-mud  to  crust  and  bury  me, 

Yet  hold  nic  living  iu  a  deep,  deep  tomb, 

Crying  unheard  forever  1    Oh,  your  cures 

Are  devil's  triumphs:  you  can  rob,  maim,  slay. 

And  keep  a  hell  on  the  other  side  your  cure 

Where  you  can  see  your  victim  quivering 

Between  the  teeth  of  torture— see  a  soul 

Made  keen  by  loss— all  anguish  with  a  good 

Once  known  and  gone !    {7'urns  and  sinks  back  on  her  chair.) 

O  misery,  misery  ! 
Yon  might  have  killed  me,  might  have  let  mc  sleep 
After  my  happy  day  and  wake— not  here ! 
In  some  new  nnremembered  world— not  here, 
Where  all  is  faded,  flat— a  feast  broke  ofl"— 
Banners  all  meaningles.s— exulting  words 
Dull,  dull— a  drum  that  lingers  in  the  air 
Beating  to  melody  which  no  man  hear.s. 


ARMGART.  39 


DooTon  (flf(cr  a  viomenVe  silence), 

A  sudden  check  has  shaken  j-oii,  poor  child ! 
All  things  seem  livid,  tottering  to  5-oiir  sense, 
From  inward  tnmult.     Stricken  by  a  threat 
You  see  your  terrors  only.    Tell  me,  Leo: 
"ris  not  such  utter  loss. 

(Leo,  with  a  shruff.,  goes  quietl'j  out.) 
The  freshest  bloom 
Merely,  has  left  the  fruit ;  the  fruit  itself  .  .  . 

Aemgart. 

Is  ruined,  withered,  is  a  thing  to  hide 

Away  from  scorn  or  pity.    Oh,  you  stand 

And  look  compassionate  now,  but  when  Death  came 

With  mercy  in  his  hands,  you  hindered  him. 

I  did  not  choose  to  live  and  have  your  pity. 

You  never  told  me,  never  gave  me  choice 

To  die  a  singer,  lightuiug-struck,  unmaimed, 

Or  live  what  you  would  make  me  with  your  cures — 

A  self  accursed  with  consciousness  of  change, 

A  mind  that  lives  in  nought  but  members  lopped, 

A  power  turned  to  pain — as  meaningless 

As  letters  fallen  asunder  that  once  made 

A  hymn  of  rapture.    Oh,  1  had  meaning  once, 

Like  day  and  sweetest  air.     What  am  I  now? 

The  millionth  woman  in  superfluous  herds. 

Why  should  I  be,  do,  think?    'Tis  thistle-seed. 

That  grows  and  grows  to  feed  the  rubbish-heap. 

Leave  me  alone '. 

DooToa. 

Well,  I  will  come  again  ; 
Send  for  me  when  you  will,  though  but  to  rate  me. 
That  is  medicinal— a  letting  blood. 

Akmgaut. 

Oh,  there  is  one  physician,  only  one. 

Who  cures  and  never  spoils.    Ilim  I  shall  send  for; 

He  comes  readily. 

DooTOE  (to  Walpokoa). 

Oce  word,  dear  Friiuleiu. 


SCENE  V. 

Aemqaet,  WAirUEGA. 

AUMGAET. 

Walpurga,  have  yon  walked  this  morning? 

Walpuega. 

No. 
Aemqaet. 
Go,  then,  and  walk ;  I  wish  to  be  alone. 


40  ARMGAKT. 

WAi.rnnoA. 
I  will  uot  leave  you. 

Akmqaut. 
Will  not,  at  my  wisli  ? 

Wali'uuoa. 

Will  not,  because  you  wi^li  it.    Sny  no  more, 
But  take  this  diaii^^lil. 

Akmsart. 

The  Doctor  gave  it  you? 
It  is  au  anodyne.    Tut  it  away. 
He  cured  me  of  my  voice,  and  now  he  wants 
To  cure  me  of  my  vision  and  resolve — 
Drug  me  to  sleep  that  I  may  wake  again 
Without  a  purpose,  abject  as  the  rest 
To  bear  the  yoke  of  life.    lie  shall  not  cheat  me 
Of  that  fresh  strength  which  anguish  gives  the  soul. 
The  inspiration  of  revolt,  ere  rage 
Slackens  to  faltering.    Now  I  sec  the  truth. 

Wai.puuoa  (setting  down  tlic  glass). 

Tlien  you  must  see  a  fiitme  in  your  reach, 
With  happiness  cuough  to  make  a  dower 
For  two  of  modest  claims. 

Akmoakt. 

Oh,  you  iutone 
That  chant  of  consolation  wherewith  ease 
Makes  itself  easier  in  the  sight  of  pain. 

Wai-pubga. 
No;  I  would  not  console  you,  but  rebuke. 

Armqaut. 

That  is  more  bearable.    Forgive  me,  dear. 
Say  what  you  will.    But  now  I  want  to  write. 

(iViC  rises  and  moves  toicards  a  table.) 

Walpuiioa. 

I  say,  then,  you  are  siuiply  fevered,  mad ; 
You  cry  aloud  at  horrors  that  would  vanish 
]f  you  would  change  the  light,  throw  into  shade 
The  loss  you  aggrandize,  and  let  day  fall 
On  good  remaining,  nay  on  good  refused 
Which  may  be  gain  now.    Did  you  not  reject 
A  woman's  lot  more  brilliant,  as  some  held, 
Than  any  singer's?    It  may  still  be  yours. 
Graf  Dornberg  loved  you  well. 

Akmgabt. 

Not  me,  not  me. 
lie  loved  one  well  who  was  like  me  in  all 
Save  in  a  voice  which  made  that  All  unlike 


AKMGART.  41 

As  diamoiid  is  to  charcoal.    Oh,  a  nian'ti  love! 
l*hii)k  you  he  loves  a  woman's  inner  self 
Aching  with  loss  of  loveliness? — as  mothers 
Cleave  to  the  jialpitatang  pain  that  dwells 
Within  their  misformed  offspring  ? 

Walpueoa. 

But  the  Graf 
■Chose  you  ae  simple  Armgart— had  preferred 
"That  you  should  never  seek  for  any  fame 
l?ut  such  as  matrons  have  who  rear  great  sons. 
And  therefore  you  rejected  him;   but  now — 

Aemqakt. 

Ay,  now— now  he  would  see  me  as  I  am, 

{She  takes  up  a  hand-mirror.) 
Basset  and  eongless  as  a  niis^cl-thnish. 
An  ordinary  girl— a  plain  brown  girl, 
Who,  if  some  meaning  flash  from  out  her  words, 
Shocks  as  a  disproportioncd  thing— a  Will 
That,  like  an  arm  astretch  anil  broken  off, 
Has  nought  to  hurl— the  torso  of  a  soul. 
I  sang  him  into  love  of  me:  my  song 
Was  consecration,  lifted  me  apart 
From  the  crowd  chiselled  like  me,  sister  forms. 
But  empty  of  diviiieness.    Nay,  my  cliarni 
Was  half  that  I  could  win  fame  yet  renounce ! 
A  wife  with  glory  possible  absorbed 
Into  her  husband's  actual. 

Walpcuga. 

For  shame ! 
Armgart,  you  slander  him.     What  would  you  say 
If  now  he  came  to  you  and  asked  again 
That  you  would  be  his  wife  ? 

AUMO.AUT. 

No,  and  thrice  no! 
It  would  be  pitying  constancy,  not  love. 
That  brought  him  to  me  now.    I  will  not  be 
A  pensioner  in  marriage.    Sacraments 
Are  not  to  feed  the  paupers  of  the  world. 
If  he  were  generous — I  am  generous  too. 

WAi-BiriiOA. 
Proad,  Armgart,  but  not  generous. 

ABMaART. 

Say  no  more, 
He  will  not  know  until- 

WALPCnaA. 

He  knows  already. 

Akmoaut  iiquickly). 
Is  he  come  back  ? 

17  c 


42  AllMGAKT 


WALrCROA. 

Yes,  and  will  soou  be  here. 
The  Doctor  had  twice  seen  him  aud  would  go 
From  heuce  a^'aiu  to  bug  him. 

AUMOAKT. 

Well,  he  kuows. 
It  is  all  oiic- 

WALrURQA. 

What  if  he  were  outside  ? 
I  hear  a  footstep  iu  the  aute-room. 

Ahmoart  (raishif;  hcrstdf  and  assuming  calmness). 

Why  let  him  come,  of  course.    I  shall  behave 
Like  what  I  am,  a  common  personaice 
AVho  looks  for  uothing  but  civility. 
1  shall  uot  play  the  fallen  heroine. 
Assume  a  tragic  part  aud  throw  out  cues 
For  a  beseeching  lover. 

Walpdrga. 

Some  one  raps. 

(Goes  to  the  door.) 
A  letter— from  the  Graf 

Armoart. 

Then  open  it. 

(WALrcRQA  still  offers  it.) 
Nay,  my  head  swims.    Read  it.    I  cannot  see. 

(WALruRGA  opcnii  it,  reads  and  pauses.) 
Kcad  it.     Have  done  !    No  matter  what  it  is. 

Walpukga  (reads  in  a  low,  hesitating  voice). 

"I  am  deeply  moved— my  heart  is  rent,  to  hear  of  your  illness  and  its  cruel  re- 
sult, just  now  communicated  to  me  by  Dr.  Gralin.  But  surely  it  is  possible  that 
this  result  may  not  be  permanent.  For  youth  such  as  yours.  Time  may  hr)!d  iu 
store  something  more  than  resignation:  who  shall  say  that  it  does  not  hold  re- 
newal ?  I  have  not  dared  to  ask  admission  to  you  iu  the  hours  of  a  recent  shock, 
but  I  cannot  depart  on  a  long  mission  without  tendering  my  sympathy  and  my 
farewell.  I  start  this  evening  for  the  Caucasus,  and  thence  I  proceed  to  India, 
where  I  am  intrusted  by  the  Government  with  business  which  may  be  of  long 
duration." 

(Walpuuga  sits  down  dcjcctedlij .) 

Armoart  (after  a  slight  shudder,  bitterlr). 

The  Graf  has  much  discretion.    I  am  glad. 
He  spares  us  both  a  pain,  not  seeing  me. 
What  I  like  least  is  that  consoling  hoi)e— 
That  empty  cup,  so  neatly  ciphered  "Time," 
Handed  me  as  a  cordial  for  despair. 

(Slowly  and  dreamily)  Time— wiiat  a  word  to  fling  as  charity ! 
Bland  neutral  word  for  slow,  dull-beating  pain- 
Day.'",  months,  and  years !— If  I  would  wait  for  them. 
(She  takes  V2>  her  hat  and  puts  it  on,  then  xoraps  her  mantle  round  her.    Wai.- 
I'ORGA  leaves  the  mom.) 


ARMGATvT.  43 

Why,  this  is  but  beginning.     (Walv.  rc-etUers.)    Kiss  me,  dear. 

-I  am  going  now — alone — out — for  ii  walli. 

Siiy  you  will  never  wouud  me  any  more 

With  such  cajolery  as  nurses  use 

To  patients  amorous  of  a  crippled  life. 

Flatter  the  bliud:  I  see. 

Wai-pukqa. 

Well,  I  was  wrong. 
In  haste  to  soothe,  I  snatched  at  fliclters  merely. 
Believe  me,  I  will  flatter  you  no  move.  , 

Aemqaet. 

Bear  witness,  I  am  calm.     I  read  my  lot 

As  soberly  as  if  it  were  a  tale 

Writ  by  a  creeping  feuilletonist  and  called 

"The  Woman's  Lot:  a  Tale  of  Everyday:" 

A  middling  woman's,  to  impress  the  world 

With  high  superfluousness;  her  thoughts  a  crop 

Of  chick-weed  errors  or  of  pot-herb  facts, 

Smiled  at  like  some  child's  drawing  ou  a  slate. 

"Genteel?"     "O  ye?,  gives  lessons;  not  so  good 

As  any  man's  would  be,  but  cheaper  far." 

"Pretty?"    "No;  yet  she  makes  a  tigurc  fit 

For  good  society.    Poor  thing,  she  sews 

Both  late  and  early,  turns  and  alters  all 

To  suit  the  changing  mode.    Some  widower 

Might  do  well,  marrying  her;  but  in  these  days!  .  ,  „ 

Well,  she  can  somewhat  eke  her  narrow  gains 

By  writing,  just  to  furnish  her  with  gloves 

And  droschkies  in  the  rain.     They  print  her  things 

Often  for  charitj'."— Oh,  a  dog's  life! 

A  harnessed  dog's,  that  draws  a  little  cart 

Voted  a  nuisance !    I  am  going  now. 

Walpuiioa. 

Not  now,  the  door  is  locked. 

Aemgaut. 

Give  me  the  key  ! 

WAI.PUr.GA. 

Locked  on  the  outside.    Gretchen  has  the  key: 
She  is  gone  on  errands. 


Your  prisoner? 


Armgart. 

What,  you  dare  to  keep  me 


Wai.purga. 

And  have  I  not  been  yours  ? 
Your  wish  has  been  a  bolt  to  keep  me  in. 
Perhaps  that  middling  woman  whom  yon  paint 
With  far-oflf  scorn.  .  .  . 

AUMQART. 

I  paint  what  I  must  be! 
What  is  my  soul  to  me  vvitliout  the  voice 


44  ,  ARMGABT. 

That  gave  it  freedom  ?— gave  it  one  prand  touch 

And  made  it  nobly  human  ?— Prisoned  now, 

Prisoned  in  all  the  petty  mimicries 

Called  woman's  knowledge,  that  will  fit  the  world 

As  doll-clothes  fit  a  man.    I  can  do  nought 

Better  than  what  a  million  women  do — 

Must  drudge  among  the  crowd  and  feel  my  life 

Beating  upon  the  world  without  response, 

Beating  with  passion  through  an  insect's  horu 

That  moves  a  millet-seed  laboriously. 

If  I  ivmikl  do  it ! 

Walpurga  (coldl'j). 

And  why  should  you  not? 

Akmgart  (turning  quickly). 

Because  Heaven  made  me  royal— wrought  me  out 

With  subtle  finish  towards  pre-eminence, 

Made  every  channel  of  my  soul  converge 

To  one  liigh  function,  and  then  flung  me  down, 

That  breaking  I  miglit  turn  to  subtlest  pain. 

An  inborn  passion  gives  a  rebel's  right  : 

I  would  rebel  and  die  in  twenty  worlds 

Sooner  than  bear  the  yoke  of  thwarted  lil'c. 

Each  keenest  sense  turned  into  keen  distaste, 

Hunger  not  satisfied  but  kept  alive 

Breathing  in  languor  half  a  century. 

All  the  world  Jiow  is  but  a  rack  of  threads 

To  twist  and  dwarf  me  into  pettiness 

And  basely  feigned  content,  the  placid  mask 

Of  women's  misery. 

Wai.I'Uuoa  (hidigiiaiithi). 

Ay,  such  a  mask 
As  the  few  born  like  you  to  easy  joy, 
Cradled  in  privilege,  take  for  natural 
On  all  the  lowly  faces  that  must  look 
Upward  to  you  !    What  revelation  now 
Shows  you  the  mask  or  gives  presentiment 
Of  sadness  hidden?    You  who  every  day 
These  five  years  saw  me  limp  to  wait  on  you, 
And  thought  the  order  perfect  which  gave  me. 
The  girl  without  pretension  to  be  aught, 
A  splendid  cousin  for  my  happiness  : 
To  watch  the  night  through  when  her  brain  was  fired 
With  too  much  gladness — listen,  always  listen 
To  what  she  felt,  who  having  power  had  right 
To  feel  exorbitantly,  and  submerge 
The  souls  around  her  with  the  jjoured-out  flood 
Of  what  must  be  ere  she  were  satisfied ! 
That  was  feigned  patience,  was  it?    Why  not  love. 
Love  nurtured  even  with  that  strength  of  self 
Which  found  no  room  save  in  another's  life? 
Oh,  such  as  I  know  joy  by  negatives. 
And  all  their  deepest  jiassion  is  a  pang 
Till  they  accept  their  [lauper's  heritage. 
And  meekly  live  from  out  the  general  store 


ARMGAET.  45 

Of  joy  they  were  born  stripped  of.    I  accept — 
Nay,  now  would,  sooner  choose  it  than  tlie  wealtli 
Of  natures  you  call  royal,  who  can  live 
In  mere  mock  knowledge  of  their  fellows'  woe, 
Thinking  their  smiles  may  heal  it. 

Arjigakt  (tremulousdij). 

Nay,  VValpnrga, 
I  did  not  make  a  palace  of  my  joy 
To  ehnt  the  world's  truth  from  me.    All  my  good 
Was  that  I  touched  the  world  and  made  a  pan 
In  the  world's  dower  of  beauty,  strength,  and  bliss; 
It  was  the  glimpse  of  consciousness  divine 
Which  pours  out  day  and  sees  the  day  is  good. 
Now  I  am  fallen  dark ;  I  sit  in  gloom, 
Remembering  bitterly.    Yet  you  speak  truth ; 
I  wearied  you,  it  seems;  took  all  your  help 
As  cushioned  Dobles  use  a  weary  serf, 
Not  looking  at  his  face, 

WAI.rUEGA. 

Oh,  I  but  stand 
As  a  small  symbol  for  the  mighty  sum 
Of  claims  unpaid  to  needy  myriads ; 
I  think  you  never  set  your  loss  beside 
Tiiat  mighty  deficit.    Is  your  work  gone— 
The  prouder  queenly  work  that  paid  itself 
And  yet  was  overpaid  with  men's  applause? 
Ar2  you  no  longer  chartered,  privileged, 
But  sunk  to  simple  woman's  penury, 
To  ruthless  Nature's  chary  average — 
Where  is  the  rebel's  right  for  you  alone? 
Noble  rebellion  lifts  a  common  load ; 
But  what  is  lie  who  flings  his  own  load  off 
And  leaves  his  fellows  toiling?    llcbcra  right? 
Say  rather,  the  deserter's.    Oh,  you  smiled 
From  your  clear  height  on  all  the  million  lots 
Which  yet  you  brand  as  abject. 

Aemgabt. 

I  was  blind 
With  too  much  happiness :  true  vision  comes 
Only,  it  seems,  with  sorrow.    Were  there  one 
This  moment  near  me,  suffering  what  I  feel, 
And  needing  me  for  comfort  iu  her  pang — 
Then  it  were  worth  the  while  to  live;  not  else. 

WAI.rtTRGA. 

One— near  you — why,  they  throng!  you  hardly  stir 

But  your  act  touches  them.     We  touch  afar. 

Yox  did  not  swarthy  slaves  of  yesterday 

Leap  iu  their  bondage  at  the  llebrews'  flight, 

Which  touched  them  through  the  thrice  millennial  dark? 

But  you  can  find  the  sufferer  you  need 

With  touch  less  subtle. 

Aemoakt. 

Who  has  need  of  me? 


46  ARMGART. 

WAirtTBOA. 

Love  lluds  the  need  It  fills.    But  you  nrc  hard.  I 

Abmqart. 

Is  It  not  yon,  Walpnrgn,  who  are  hard  f 
You  humored  all  my  wishes  till  to-day, 
When  fate  has  blii;htc(l  ine. 

WM.rtinoA. 

You  wotild  not  hear 
The  "chant  of  consolation:"  words  of  hope 
Only  embittered  you.    Then  hear  the  truth— 
A  lame  girl's  truth,  whom  no  one  ever  praised 
For  being  cheerful.     "It  is  well,"  ihcy  said: 
"Were  she  cross-drained  she  could  not  be  endured." 
A  word  of  truth  from  her  had  startled  you  ; 
But  you— you  claimed  the  universe;  nought  less 
Thau  all  existence  working  in  sure  tracks 
Towards  your  supremacy.    The  wheels  might  scathe 
A  myriad  destinies— nay,  must  perforce ; 
But  yours  they  must  keep  clear  of;  just  for  you 
The  seething  atoms  through  the  firmament 
Must  bear  a  human  heart— which  you  had  not! 
For  what  is  it  to  you  that  women,  men, 
Plod,  faint,  arc  weary,  and  espouse  despair 
Of  aught  but  fellowship  ?    Save  that  you  spurn 
To  be  among  them  ?    Now,  tlien,  you  are  lame — 
Maimed,  as  you  said,  and  levelled  with  the  crowd: 
Call  it  new  birth— birth  IVom  that  monstrous  Self 
Which,  smiling  down  npon  a  race  oppressed. 
Says,  "All  is  good,  for  I  am  throned  at  ease." 
Dear  Armgart — nay,  you  tremble— I  am  cruel. 

Abmqaut. 
O  no  1  hark  !    Some  one  knocks.     Come  in  ! — come  in  I 

[Enter  Lno. 
Lr.o. 

See,  Gretchen  let  me  in.    I  could  not  rest    " 
Longer  away  from  you. 

An.MGART. 

Sit  down,  dear  Leo. 
Walpurga,  I  would  speak  with  him  alone. 

(WALrUKQA  (jnCS  out.) 

Leo  (Jtesitatingly). 

You  mean  to  walk  ? 

Ak.mgaiit. 

No,  I  shall  stay  within. 
(She.  takes  of  her  hat  and  mantle,  and  sits  down  imniediatclij.    After  a  pause, 
speaking  in  a  subdiied  tone  to  Leo.) 
How  old  arc  you  ? 

Leo. 

Threescore  and  five. 


ARMGART.  47 


Armgakt. 

That's  old. 
I  never  thought  till  now  how  yon  have  lived. 
They  hardly  ever  play  yonr  music? 

Lko  (raising  his  eyebroies  and  throwing  <nU  his  lip). 

No! 
Schubert  too  wrote  for  silence:  half  his  work 
Lay  like  a  frozen  Rhine  till  sumnierij  came 
That  warmed  the  grass  above  him.     Even  sot 
His  music  lives  now  with  a  mighty  youth. 

Akmqart. 
Do  yon  think  youre  will  live  when  you  are  dead? 

Lf.o. 

Pfui !    The  time  was,  I  drank  that  home-brewed  wine 
And  found  it  heady,  while  my  blood  was  young: 
Now  it  scarce  warms  me.    Tipple  it  as  I  may, 
I  am  sober  still,  and  say:  "My  old  friend  Leo, 
Much  grain  is  wasted  in  the  world  and  rots; 
Why  not  thy  handful  ?" 

Akmoa-rt. 

Strange !  since  I  have  known  you 
Till  now  I  never  wondered  how  you  lived. 
When  I  sang  well— that  was  your  jubilee. 
But  you  were  old  already. 

Leo. 

Yes,  child,  yes: 
Youth  thinks  itself  the  goal  of  each  old  life; 
Age  has  but  travelled  from  a  far-oft"  time 
Just  to  l)e  ready  for  youth's  service.    Well ! 
It  was  my  chief  delight  to  perfect  you. 

Aemgart. 

Good  Leo!    You  have  lived  on  little  joys. 

But  your  delight  in  me  is  crushed  forever. 

Your  pains,  where  are  they  now?    They  shaped  intent 

Which  action  frustrates;  shaped  an  inward  sense 

Which  is  but  keen  despair,  the  agony 

Of  highest  vision  in  the  lowest  pit. 

Leo. 

Nay,  nay,  1  have  a  thought:  keep  to  the  stage. 
To  drama  without  song;  for  you  can  act — 
Who  knows  how  well,  when  all  the  soul  is  poured 
Into  that  sluice  alone  ? 

Aemg.mit. 

I  know,  and  you: 
The  second  or  third  best  in  tragedies 
That  cease  to  touch  the  fibre  of  the  time. 
No;  song  is  gone,  but  nature's  other  gift, 


48  AUMOART. 

Self-jndgment,  is  not  gone.     Song  wns  my  gpccch, 

And  with  its  impulse  oiilj',  action  came: 

Song  was  llie  battlcVs  onset,  wlien  cool  jmrpoec 

Glows  into  lage,  becomes  a  wairing  god 

And  moves  the  limbs  with  miracle.     But  now — 

Oh,  I  should  stand  liommcd  in  with  thoughts  and  riil^— 

Say  "This  way  passion  acts,"  yet  never  feel 

The  might  of  passion.     IIow  should  I  declaim? 

As  monsters  write  with  feet  instead  of  hands. 

1  will  not  feed  on  doing  great  taeks  ill. 

Dull  the  world's  sense  with  mcdiociity, 

Aud  live  by  trash  that  smothers  excellence. 

One  gift  I  had  that  ranked  me  with  tlie  best — 

The  secret  of  my  frame — and  that  is  gone. 

For  all  life  now  I  am  a  broken  thing. 

But  silence  there  !    Good  Leo,  advi.se  me  now. 

I  would  take  humble  work  and  do  it  well — 

Teach  music,  singing — what  I  can— not  here, 

But  in  some  smaller  town  where  I  may  bring 

The  method  you  have  taught  me,  pass  your  gift 

To  others  who  can  use  it  for  delight. 

You  think  I  can  do  that? 

(She  pauses,  with  a  sob  in  her  voice.) 

Leo. 

Yes,  yes,  dear  child  1 
And  it  were  well,  perhaps,  to  change  the  place- 
Begin  afresh  as  I  did  when  I  left 
Vienna  with  a  heart  half  broken. 

Abmgabt  {i-oused  by  surprise). 
You  ? 

LiMI. 

Well,  it  is  long  ago.    But  I  had  lost — 
No  matter !    We  must  bury  our  dead  joys 
And  live  above  them  witK  a  living  world. 
But  whither,  think  you,  you  would  like  to  go? 


To  Freiburg. 


It  is  too  small. 


Aumqaet. 

Lbo. 
In  the  Breisgan?    And  why  there? 


Aemoaet. 

Walpurga  was  born  there. 
And  loves  the  place.    She  quitted  it  for  me 
These  five  years  past.    Now  I  will  take  her  there. 
Dear  Leo,  I  will  bury  my  dead  joy. 

Lko. 

Mothers  do  so,  bereaved ;  then  learn  to  love 
Another's  living  child. 


1870. 


ARMGART.  49 


AKMaAKT. 

Oh,  it  is  hard 
To  tiikc  the  little  corpse,  and  lay  it  low, 
And  say,  "None  misses  it  but  me." 
She  sings.  .  .  . 

I  mean  Paulina  sings  Fidelio, 
And  they  will  welcome  her  to-night. 

Leo. 

Well,  well, 
'Tis  better  that  our  griefs  should  not  spread  far. 


17 


* 


now  LISA   LOVED   THE  KING. 

Six  hundred  years  ago,  in  Dante'a  time, 
Before  his  cheek  was  furrowed  by  deep  rhyme- 
When  Euroi)e,  fed  afiesh  from  Eastern  story. 
Was  like  a  garden  tangled  with  the  glory 
Of  flowers  hand-planted  and  of  flowers  air-sown, 
Climbing  and  trailing,  budding  and  full-blown. 
Where  purple  bells  are  tossed  amid  pink  stars, 
And  springing  blades,  green  troops  in  innocent  wars, 
Crowd  every  shady  spot  of  teeming  earth, 
Making  invisible  motion  visible  birth- 
Six  hundred  years  ago,  Palermo  town 
Kept  holiday.     A  deed  of  great  renown, 
A  high  revenge,  had  freed  it  from  the  yoke 
Of  hated  Frenchmen,  and  from  Calpe's  rock 
To  where  the  Bosporus  caught  the  earlier  sun, 
'Twas  told. that  Pedro,  King  of  Aragou, 
Was  welcomed  master  of  all  Sicily, 
A  royal  knight,  supreme  as  kings  should  be 
In  strength  and  gentleness  that  make  high  chivalry. 

Spain  was  the  favorite  home  of  knightly  grace. 

Where  generous  men  rode  steeds  of  generous  race ; 

Both  Spanish,  yet  half  Arab,  both  inspired 

By  mutual  spirit,  that  each  motion  fired 

With  beauteous  response,  like  minstrelsy 

Afresh  fulfilling  fresh  expectancy. 

So  when  Palermo  made  high  festival, 

The  joy  of  matrons  and  of  maidens  all 

Was  the  mock  terror  of  the  tournament, 

Where  safety,  with  the  glimpse  of  dauger  blent, 

Took  exaltation  as  from  epic  song, 

Which  greatly  tells  the  pains  that  to  great  life  belong. 

And  in  all  eyes  King  Pedro  was  the  king 

Of  cavaliers:  as  in  a  full-gemmed  ring 

The  largest  ruby,  or  as  that  briglit  star 

Whose  shining  shows  us  where  the  Ilyads  are. 

His  the  best  jennet,  and  he  sat  it  best; 

His  weapon,  whether  tilling  or  in  rest, 

Was  worthiest  watching,  and  his  face  once  seen 

Gave  to  the  promise  of  his  royal  mien 

Such  rich  fulfilment  as  the  opened  eyes 

Of  a  loved  sleeper,  or  the  long-watched  rise 

Of  vernal  day,  whose  joy  o'er  stream  and  meadow  flics. 

But  of  the  maiden  forms  that  thick  enwreathed 
The  broad  piazza  and  sweet  witchery  breathed, 


now   LISA  LOVED  THE  KING.  51 

With  innocent  faces  budding  all  arow 

From  balconies  and  windows  hii,'h  and  low, 

Wiio  was  it  felt  the  deep  mysterious  glow, 

The  impregnation  with  supernal  tire 

Of  young  ideal  love — transformed  desire. 

Whose  passion  is  but  worship  of  that  Best 

Tuuglit  by  the  many-mingled  creed  of  each  young  breast  ? 

'Twas  gentle  Lisa,  of  no  noble  line. 

Child  of  Bernardo,  a  rich  Florentine, 

Who  from  his  merchant-city  hither  came 

To  trade  in  drngs;  yet  liept  an  honest  fame. 

And  had  the  virtue  not  to  try  and  sell 

Drugs  that  had  none.    He  loved  his  riches  well, 

But  loved  theui  chiefly  for  his  Lisa's  salie, 

Whom  with  a  father's  care  he  sought  to  make 

The  bride  of  some  true  honorable  man: — 

Of  Perdicoue  (so  the  rumor  ran). 

Whose  birth  was  higher  than  his  fortunes  were; 

For  still  your  trader  likes  a  mixture  fair 

Of  blood  that  hurries  to  some  higher  strain 

Than  recicouiug  money's  loss  and  money's  gain. 

And  of  sucli  mixture  good  may  surely  come : 

Lords'  scions  so  may  learn  to  cast  a  sum, 

A  trader's  grandson  bear  a  well-set  head, 

And  have  less  conscious  manners,  belter  l)red; 

Nor,  when  he  tries  to  be  polite,  be  rude  instead. 

'Twas  Perdicone's  friends  made  overtures 

To  good  Bernardo;  so  one  dame  assures 

Her  neighbor  dame  who  notices  the  youth 

Fixing  his  eyes  on  Lisa ;  and  in  truth 

Eyes  that  could  see  her  on  this  summer  day 

Might  find  it  hard  to  turn  another  way. 

She  had  a  pensive  beauty,  yet  not  sad ; 

Rather,  like  minor  cadences  that  glad 

The  hearts  of  little  birds  amid  spring  boughs  ; 

And  oft  the  trumpet  or  the  joust  would  rouse 

Pulses  that  gave  her  cheek  a  finer  glow. 

Parting  her  lips  that  seemed  a  mimic  bow 

By  chiselling  Love  for  play  in  coral  wrought, 

'I'hen  quickened  by  him  with  the  passionate  thought. 

The  soul  that  trembled  in  the  lustrous  night 

Of  slow  long  eyes.     Her  body  was  so  sliglit. 

It  seemed  she  could  have  floated  in  the  sky. 

And  with  the  angelic  choir  made  symphony; 

But  in  her  cheek's  rich  tinge,  and  in  the  dark 

Of  darkest  hair  and  eyes,  she  bore  a  mark 

Of  kinship  to  her  generous  mother  earth. 

The  fervid  laud  that  gives  the  plumy  palm-trees  birth. 

She  saw  not  Perdicone  ;  her  young  mind 
Dreamed  not  that  any  man  had  ever  pined 
For  such  a  little  simple  maid  as  she : 
She  had  but  dreamed  how  heavenly  it  would  be 
To  love  some  hero  noble,  beauteous,  great. 
Who  would  live  stories  worthy  to  narrate, 


52 


now  LISA  LOVED  TUE  KING. 

Like  Roland,  or  the  waniers  of  Troy, 
The  Cid,  or  Amadis,  or  that  fair  boy 
Who  conquered  everythinn;  beneath  the  sun, 
And  Bomehow,  some  time,  died  at  Babylon 
Fiylitini;  the  Moors.     For  heroes  nil  were  good 
And  fair  as  that  archangel  who  w-ithstood 
The  Evil  One,  tlic  anthor  of  all  wrong- 
That  Evil  One  who  made  the  French  so  strong; 
And  now  the  flower  of  heroes  must  be  ho 
Who  drove  those  tyrants  from  dear  Sicily, 
So  that  her  maids  might  walk  to  vespers  tranquilly. 
Young  Lisa  saw  this  hero  in  the  king, 
And  as  wood-lilies  that  sweet  odors  bring 
Might  dream  the  light  that  opes  their  modest  cync 
Was  lily-odored,— and  as  rights  divine, 
Round  tiirf-laid  altars,  or  'neath  roofs  of  stone. 
Draw  sanctity  from  out  the  heart  alone 
That  loves  and  worships,  so  the  miniature 
Perplexed  of  her  soul's  ^yorId,  all  virgin  pure, 
Filled  with  heroic  virtues  that  bright  form. 
Raona's  royalty,  the  finished  norm 
Of  horsemanship— the  half  of  chivalry: 
For  how  could  generous  men  avengers  be. 
Save  as  God's  messengers  on  coursers  fleet  f— 
These,  scouring  earth,  made  Spain  with  Syria  meet 
In  one  self  world  where  the  same  right  had  sway, 
And  good  must  grow  as  grew  the  blessed  day. 
No  more;  great  Love  his  essence  had  endued 
With  Pedro's  form,  and  entering  subdued 
The  soul  of  Lisa,  fervid  and  intense. 
Proud  in  its  choice  of  proud  obedience 
To  hardship  glorified  by  perfect  reverence. 

Sweet  Lisa  homeward  carried  that  dire  guest, 
And  in  her  chamber  through  the  hours  of  rest 
The  darkness  was  alight  for  her  with  sheen 
Of  arms,  and  plumed  helm,  , and  bright  between 
Their  commoner  gloss,  like?  the  jnire  living  spring 
'Twixt  porphyry  lips,  or  tjving  bird's  bright  wing 
'Twixt  golden  wires,  the  glances  of  the  king 
Flashed  on  her  soul,  and  waked  vibrations  there 
Of  known  delights  love-mixed  to  new  and  rare: 
The  impalpable  dream  was  turned  to  breathing  flesh, 
Chill  thought  of  summer  to  the  warm  close  mesh 
Of  sunbeams  held  between  the  citron-leaves, 
Clothing  her  life  of  life.    Oh,  she  believes 
That  she  could  be  content  if  he  but  knew 
(Her  poor  small  self  could  claim  no  other  due) 
How  Lisa's  lowly  love  had  highest  reach 
Of  winged  passion,  wliereto  winged  speech 
Would  be  scorched  remnants  left  by  mounting  flame. 
Though,  had  she  such  lame  message,  were  it  blame 
To  tell  what  greatness  dwelt  in  her,  what  rank 
She  held  in  loving?    Modest  maidens  slirank 
From  telling  love  that  fed  on  selfish  hope ; 
But  love,  as  hopeless  as  the  shattering  song 
Wailed  for  loved  beings  who  have  joined  the  throng 


now   LISA   LOVED   THE  KING.  53 

Of  mighty  dead  ones.  .  .  .  Nay,  bnt  she  was  weak — 
Kuew  ouly  prayers  nud  ballads— could  not  speak 
With  eloquence  save  what  dumb  creatures  have, 
That  with  small  cries  aud  touches  small  boons  crave. 

She  watched  all  day  that  she  might  see  him  pass 

With  knights  aud  ladies;   but  she  said,  "Alas! 

Though  he  should  see  me,  it  were  all  as  one 

lie  saw  a  pigeon  sitting  on  the  stone 

Of  wall  or  balcony  :   some  colored  spot 

His  eye  just  sees,  his  mind  regardelh  not. 

I  have  no  music-touch  that  could  bring  nigh 

My  love  to  his  soul's  hearing.     I  shall  die, 

Aud  he  will  never  know  who  Lisa  was— 

The  trader's  child,  whose  soaring  spirit  rose ' 

As  hedge-bora  aloe-flowers  that  rarest  years  disclose. 

"For  were  I  now  a  fair  deep-breasted  queen 

A-horseback,  with  blonde  hair,  and  Uinic  green 

Gold-bordered,  like  C'ostanza,  I  should  need 

No  change  within  to  make  mc  queenly  there; 

For  they  the  royal-hearted  women  are 

Who  nobly  love  the  noblest,  yet  have  grace 

For  needy  suffering  lives  in  lowliest  place. 

Carrying  a  choicer  sunlight  in  their  smile. 

The  heaveuliest  ray  that  pitieth  the  vile. 

My  love  is  such,  it  cannot  choose  but  soar 

Up  to  the  highest;  yet  for  evermore, 

Though  I  were  happy,  throned  beside  the  king, 

I  should  be  tender  to  each  little  thing 

With  hurt  warm  breast,  that  had  no  siieech  to  tell 

Its  inward  pang,  and  I  would  soothe  it  well 

With  tender  touch  and  with  a  low  soft  moan 

For  company:  my  dumb  love-pang  is  lone, 

Prisoned  as  topaz-beam  within  a  rough-garbed  stone." 

So,  inward-wailing,  Lisa  passed  her  days. 

Each  night  the  August  moon  with  changing  phase 

Looked  broader,  harder  on  her  unchanged  pain ; 

Each  noon  the  heat  lay  heavier  again 

On  her  despair ;  until  her  body  frail 

Shrank  like  the  snow  that  watchers  in  the  vale 

See  narrowed  on  the  height  each  summer  morn ; 

While  her  dark  glance  burnt  larger,  more  forlorn, 

As  if  the  soul  within  her  all  on  fire 

Made  of  her  being  one  swift  funeral  pyre. 

Father  and  mother  saw  with  sad  dismay 

The  meaning  of  their  riches  melt  away : 

For  without  Lisa  what  would  sequins  buy? 

What  wish  were  left  if  Lisa  were  to  die? 

Through  her  they  cared  for  summers  still  to  come, 

Else  they  would  be  as  ghosts  without  a  home 

In  any  flesh  that  could  feel  glad  desire. 

They  pay  the  best  i)hysicians,  never  tire 

Of  seeking  what  will  soothe  her,  promising 

That  aught  she  longed  for,  though  it  were  a  thing 

Hard  to  be  come  at  as  the  Indian  snow, 

Or  roses  that  on  alpine  summits  blow — 


54  HOW  LISA  LOVED  THE  KING. 

It  should  be  hers.    She  answers  with  low  voice, 
She  loii^s  for  death  alone— death  is  her  choice; 
Death  is  tlic  King  who  never  did  think  scorn, 
But  rescues  every  meanest  soul  to  sorrow  l)orn. 

Yet  one  day,  as  they  bent  above  her  bed 

And  watched  hor  in  brief  sleep,  her  drooping  head 

Turned  gently,  as  the  tliirsty  flowers  that  feel 

Sonic  moist  revival  through  their  petals  steal, 

And  little  fluttcrings  of  her  lids  and  lips 

Told  of  sucli  dreamy  joy  as  sometimes  dips 

A  skyey  shadow  in  the  mind's  poor  pool. 

She  oped  her  eyes,  and  turned  tlieir  dark  gems  full 

Upon  her  father,  as  in  utterance  duml) 

Of  some  new  jirayer  that  in  her  sleep  had  come. 

"What  is  it,  Lisa?"    "Father,  I  would  see 

Minuccio,  the  great  singer;  bring  him  me." 

For  always,  night  and  day,  her  unstilled  thought, 

Wandering  all  o'er  its  little  world,  had  souglit 

How  she  coidd  reach,  by  some  soft  pleading  touch, 

King  Pedro's  soul,  tliat  she  who  loved  so  much 

Dying,  might  have  a  place  witlun  his  mind — 

A  little  grave  which  he  would  sometimes  find 

And  plant  some  flower  on  it— some  thought,  some  memory  kind. 

Till  in  her  dream  she  saw  Minuccio 

Touching  his  viola,  and  chanting  low 

A  strain  that,  falling  on  lier  brokenly. 

Seemed  blossoms  lightly  blown  from  oflf  a  tree. 

Each  burdened  with  a  word  that  was  a  scent — 

Raona,  Lisa,  love,  death,  tournament; 

Then  in  her  dream  she  said,  "He  sings  of  me— 

Might  be  my  messenger;  ah,  now  I  see 

The  king  is  listening—"    Then  she  awoke. 

And,  missing  her  dear  dream,  that  new-born  longing  spoke. 

She  longed  for  music :  that  was  natural  ; 
Physicians  said  it  was  medicinal ; 
The  humors  might  be  schooled  by  true  consent 
Of  a  fine  tenor  and  fine  instrument; 
In  brief,  good  music,  mixed  with  doctor's  stuff, 
Apollo  with  Asklepios— enough  ! 
Minuccio,  entreated,  gladly  came, 
(lie  was  a  singer  of  most  gentle  fame— 
A  noble,  kindly  spirit,  not  elate 
That  he  was  famous,  but  that  song  was  great- 
Would  sing  as  finely  to  this  suffering  child 
As  at  the  court  where  princes  on  him  smiled.) 
Gently  he  entered  and  sat  down  by  her. 
Asking  what  sort  of  strain  she  would  prefer— 
The  voice  alone,  or  voice  with  viol  wed ; 
Then,  when  she  chose  the  last,  he  preluded 
With  magic  hand,  that  summoned  from  the  strings 
Aerial  spirits,  rare  yet  vibrant  wings 
That  fanned  the  pulses  of  his  listener, 
And  waked  each  sleeping  sense  with  blissful  stir. 
Her  cheek  already  showed  a  slow  faint  l)lush, 
But  soou  the  voice,  in  pure  full  liquid  rush. 


HOW  LISA  LOVED  THE  KING. 

Made  all  the  passion,  that  till  now  she  felt, 

Scciii  but  cool  waters  that  in  wanner  melt. 

Finished  the  song,  she  prayed  to  be  alone 

With  kind  Minnccio ;  for  her  faith  had  grown 

To  trust  him  as  if  missioned  like  a  priest 

With  some  high  grace,  that  when  his  singing  ceased 

Still  made  him  wiser,  more  niagnanimons 

Than  common  men  who  had  no  genius. 

So  laying  her  small  hand  within  his  palm, 

She  told  him  how  that  secret  glorious  harm 

Of  loftiest  loving  had  befallen  her ; 

That  death,  her  only  hope,  most  bitter  were. 

If  when  she  died  her  love  must  perish  too 

As  songs  unsnng  and  thoughts  unspoken  do, 

Which  else  might  live  within  another  breast. 

She  said,  "Miiiuccio,  the  grave  were  rest. 

If  I  were  sure,  that  lying  cold  and  lone, 

My  love,  my  best  of  life,  had  safely  flown 

And  nestled  in  the  bosom  of  the  king ; 

See,  'tis  a  small  weak  bird,  with  unfledged  wing. 

But  you  will  carry  it  for  me  secretly, 

And  bear  it  to  the  king,  then  come  to  me 

And  tell  me  it  is  safe,  and  I  shall  go 

Content,  kuowiug  that  he  I  love  my  love  doth  know." 

Then  she  wept  silently,  but  each  large  tear 

Made  pleading  music  to  the  inward  ear 

Of  good  Minnccio.     "Lisa,  trust  in  me," 

lie  said,  and  kissed  her  fingers  loyally ; 

"It  is  sweet  law  to  nie  to  do  your  will, 

And  ere  the  suu  his  round  shall  thrice  fulfil, 

I  hope  to  bring  you  news  of  such  rare  skill 

As  amulets  have,  that  aches  in  trusting  bosoms  still." 

He  needed  not  to  pause  and  first  devise 

IIow  he  should  tell  the  king ;  for  in  nowise 

Were  such  love-message  worthily  bested 

Save  in  fine  verse  by  music  rendered. 

He  sought  a  poet-friend,  a  Siennese, 

And  "  Mico,  mine,"  he  said,  "full  oft  to  jjlease 

Thy  whim  of  sadness  I  have  sung  thee  strains 

To  make  thee  weep  in  verse :  now  pay  my  pains. 

And  write  me  a  cauzon  divinely  sad, 

Sinlessly  passionate  and  meekly  mad 

With  young  despair,  speaking  a  maiden's  heart 

Of  fifteen  summers,  who  would  fain  depart 

From  ripening  life's  new-urgent  mystery — 

Love-choice  of  (me  too  high  her  V)ve  to  be — 

But  cannot  yield  her  breath  till  she  has  poured 

Her  strength  away  in  this  hot-bleeding  word 

Telling  the  secret  of  her  soul  to  her  soul's  lord." 

Said  Mico,  "Nay,  that  thought  is  poesy, 

I  need  but  listen  as  it  sings  to  me. 

Come  tliou  again  to-morrow."    The  third  day. 

When  linked  notes  had  perfected  the  lay, 

Minnccio  had  his  summons  to  the  court 

To  make,  as  he  was  wont,  the  moments  short 


56  now  LISA  liOVED  THE  KINO. 

Of  ceromonious  dinner  to  the  king. 

This  was  the  time  when  he  iiad  meant  to  bring 

Melodious  messat,'e  of  young  Lisa's  love: 

He  waited  till  the  air  had  ceased  to  move 

To  ringing  silver,  till  Falcrnian  wine 

Made  iiuickencd  sense  with  quietude  combine, 

And  then  with  passionate  descant  made  each  car  incline. 

Love,  thou  diditt  see  me,  Ivjht  as  morniiufa  breath, 
lioaming  a  garden  in  a  joyous  error, 
Laxirjhinij  at  chases  vain,  a  ha])pi/  child. 
Till  of  thy  countenance  the  alhuing  terror 
In  majesty  from  out  the  blossoms  smiled. 
From  out  their  life  scfviinrj  a  beauteous  Death. 

O  Love,  who  So  diiht  choose  me  for  thine  omn, 

Takinrj  this  little  isle  to  thy  great  sway, 

See  now,  it  is  the  honor  of  thy  throne 

That  luhat  thou  gavcst  perish  not  away, 

Nor  leave  some  sweet  remembraiice  to  atone 

By  life  that  will  be  for  the  brief  life  gone: 

Hear,  ere  the  shroud  o'er  these  frail  lirnbs  be  throtvnr^ 

Since  every  king  is  vassal  unto  thee, 

My  heart's  lord  needs  must  listen  loyally — 

O  tell  him  I  am  waiting  for  my  Death  ! 

Tell  him,  for  that  Ice  hath  such  royal  power 
'Twere  hard  for  him  to  think  how  small  a  thing. 
How  slight  a  sign,  tuonld  make  a  tvealthy  dowar 
For  one  like  me,  the  bride  of  that  pale  king 
Whose  bed  is  mine  at  some  swift-nearing  hour. 
Oo  to' my  lord,  and  to  his  memory  bring 
That  hap%>y  birthday  of  my  sorrowing 
When  his  large  glance  inade  meaner  gazers  glad. 
Filtering  the  bannered  lists:  'twas  then  I  had 
Tfie  wound  that  laid  me  in  tlie  arms  of  Death. 

Tell  him,  0  Love,  I  am  a  lowly  maid, 
Ab  more  than  any  little  knot  of  thyme 
That  he  with  careless  foot  may  often  tread; 
Vet  loiocst  fragrance  oft  will  mount  sublime 
And  cleave  to  things  most  high  and  hallowed. 
As  doth  the  frc^g ranee  of  my  life's  springtime. 
My  lowly  love,  that  soaring  seeks  to  climb 
Within  hii  thought,  and  make  a  gentle  bliss, 
J) fore  blissful  than  if  mine,  in  being  his : 
So  shall  I  live  in  him  and  rest  in  Death. 

The  strain  was  new.    It  seemed  a  pleading  cry, 
And  yet  a  rounded  perfect  melody, 
Making  grief  beauteous  as  the  tear-tllled  eyes 
Of  little  child  at  little  miseries. 
Trembling  at  first,  then  swelling  as  it  rose. 
Like  rising  light  that  broad  and  broader  grows, 
It  filled  the  hall,  and  so  possessed  the  air 
That  not  one  breathing  soul  was  present  there, 
Though  dullest,  slowest,  but  was  quivering 
In  music's  grasp,  and  forced  to  hear  her  sing. 


now  LISA  LOTED  THE  KING.  57 

But  most  such  sweet  compiilsiou  took  the  mood 
Of  Pedro  (tired  of  doing  what  he  would). 
Whether  the  words  which  tliat  stran<^e  meaning  bore 
Were  but  the  poet's  feiguiug  or  aught  more, 
Was  bouuden  question,  since  their  aim  must  be 
At  some  imagined  or  true  royalty. 
lie  called  Minuccio  and  bade  him  tell 
\^'hat  poet  of  the  day  had  writ  so  well ; 
For  though  they  came  behind  all  former  rhymes. 
The  verses  were  not  bad  for  these  poor  times. 
"Monsignor,  they  are  only  three  days  old," 
Minuccio  said;  "but  it  must  not  be  told 
IIow  this  song  grew,  save  to  your  royal  ear." 
Eager,  the  king  withdrew  where  none  was  near, 
And  gave  close  audience  to  Minuccio, 
Who  meetly  told  that  love-tale  meet  to  know. 
The  king  had  features  pliant  to  confess 
The  presence  of  a  manly  tenderness- 
Son,  father,  brother,  lover,  blent  in  one. 
In  flue  harmonic  exaltation — 
The  spirit  of  religious  chivalry. 
He  listened,  and  Minuccio  could  see 
The  tender,  generous  admiration  spread 
O'er  all  his  face,  and  glorify  his  head 
With  royalty  that  would  have  kept  its  rank 
Tliongh  his  brocaded  robes  to  tatters  shrank, 
lie  answered  without  pause,  "So  sweet  a  maid, 
In  nature's  own  insignia  arrayed. 
Though  she  were  come  of  unmixed  trading  blood 
That  sold  and  bartered  ever  since  the  Flood, 
Would  have  the  self-contained  and  single  worth 
Of  radiant  jewels  born  in  darksome  earth. 
Raona  were  a  shame  to  Sicily, 
Letting  such  love  and  tears  unhonored  be : 
Hasten,  Minuccio,  tell' her  that  the  king 
To-day  \vill  surely  visit  her  when  vespers  ring;" 

Joyful,  Minuccio  bore  the  joyous  word, 

And  told  at  full,  while  none  but  Lisa  heard, 

IIow  each  thing  had  befallen,  sang  the  song, 

And  like  a  patient  nurse  who  would  prolong 

All  means  of  soothing,  dwelt  upon  each  tone, 

Each  look,  with  whicli  the  mighty  Aragon 

Marked  the  high  worth  his  royal  heart  assigned 

To  that  dear  place  he  held  in  Lisa's  mind. 

She  listened  till  the  draughts  of  pure  content 

Through  all  her  limbs  like  some  new  being  went— 

Life,  not  recovered,  bnt  untried  before. 

From  out  the  growing  world's  unmeasured  store 

Of  fuller,  better,  more  divinely  mixed. 

'Twas  glad  reverse :  she  had  so  firmly  fixed 

To  die,  already  seemed  to  fall  a  veil 

Shrouding  the  inner  glow  from  light  of  senses  palo. 

Her  parents  wondering  see  her  half  arise— 
Wondering,  rejoicing,  see  her  long  dark  eyes 
Brimful  with  clearness,  not  of  'scaping  tears, 
But  of  some  light  clhcjcal  that  enspheres 


58  now   LISA  LO\TED  THE  KINO.  * 

Their  orbs  with  calm,  eomc  vision  newly  Icavnt 

Where  strangest  fires  crewhile  had  blindly  burnt. 

She  asked  to  have  her  Bol't  white  robe  and  band 

And  coral  ornaments,  and  with  her  hand 

She  gave  her  locks'  dark  length  a  backward  Tall, 

Then  looked  intently  in  a  mirror  small, 

And  feared  her  face  might  perhaps  displease  the  king; 

"In  truth,"  she  said,  "I  am  a  tiny  thing; 

I  was  too  bold  to  tell  what  could  such  visit  bring." 

Meanwhile  the  king,  revolving  in  his  thought 

That  virgin  passion,  was  more  deeply  wrought 

To  chivalrous  pity ;  and  at  vesper  bell. 

With  careless  mien  which  hid  his  purpose  well, 

W'ent  forth  on  horseback,  and  as  if  by  chance 

Passing  Bernardo's  house,  he  paused  to  glance 

At  the  fine  garden  of  this  wealthy  man, 

Tliis  Tuscan  trader  turned  ralermitan  : 

But,  presently  dismounting,  chose  to  walk 

Amid  the  trellises,  in  gracious  talk 

With  this  same  trader,  deigning  even  to  ask 

If  he  had  yet  fulfilled  the  father's  task 

Of  marrying  that  daughter  whoso  young  charms 

Himself,  betwixt  the  passages  of  arms, 

Noted  admiringly.     "  Monsiguor,  no, 

She  is  not  married ;  that  were  little  woe. 

Since  she  has  counted  barely  fifteen  years ; 

Kut  all  snch  hopes  of  late  have  turned  to  fears; 

She  droops  and  fades ;  though  for  a  space  quite  bi  ief— 

Scarce  three  hours  past— she  finds  some  strange  relief." 

The  king  avised  :   "  'Twcrc  dole  to  all  of  us. 

The  world  should  lose  a  maid  so  beauteous  ; 

Let  me  now  see  her ;  since  I  am  her  liege  lord, 

Her  spirits  must  wage  war  with  death  at  my  strong  word." 

In  such  half-serious  playfulness,  be  wends, 

With  Lisa's  fatbci-  and  two  chosen  friends. 

Up  to  the  chamlier  where  she  pillowed  sits 

Watching  the  open  door,  that  now  admits 

A  presence  as  much  better  than  her  dreams. 

As  happiness  than  any  longing  seems. 

The  king  advanced,  and,  with  a  leverent  kiss 

Upon  her  hand,  said,  "Lady,  what  is  this? 

You,  whose  sweet  youth  should  others'  solace  be, 

Pierce  all  our  hearts,  languishing  pitenusly. 

We  pray  you,  for  the  love  of  us,  be  cheered, 

Nor  be  too  reckless  of  that  life,  endeared 

To  us  who  know  your  passing  worthiness, 

And  count  your  blooming  life  as  part  of  our  life's  bliss." 

Those  words,  that  touch  upon  her  hand  from  him 
Whom  her  soul  worshipped,  as  far  seraphim 
Worship  the  distant  glory,  brought  some  shame 
Quivering  upon  her  cheek,  yet  thrilled  her  frame 
With  such  deep  joy  she  seemed  in  paradise, 
In  wondering  gladness,  and  in  dumb  surprise 
That  bliss  could  be  so  blissful  :  then  she  spoke — 
"Siguor,  I  was  too  weak  to  bear  the  yoke, 


now  LISA  LOVED  THE  KING.  59 

The  gokleu  yoke  of  thonghta  too  great  for  mc ; 

That  was  the  jrround  of  my  infirmity. 

But  now,  I  pray  your  grace  to  have  belief 

That  I  shall  soon  be  well,  nor  any  more  cause  grief." 

The  king  aloue  perceived  the  covert  sense 
Of  all  her  words,  which  made  one  evidence 
With  her  pure  voice  and  candid  loveliness. 
That  he  had  lost  much  honor,  honoring  less 
That  message  of  her  passionate  distress. 
He  stayed  beside  her  for  a  little  while 
With  gentle  looks  and  speech,  until  a  smile 
As  placid  as  a  ray  of  early  morn 
On  opening  flower-ciips  o'er  her  lips  was  borne. 
When  he  had  left  her,  and  the  tidings  spread 
Through  all  the  town  how  he  had  visited 
The  Tuscan  trader's  daughter,  who  was  sick, 
Men  said,  it  was  a  royal  deed  and  catholic. 

And  Lisa?  she  no  longer  wished  for  death  ; 

But  as  a  poet,  who  sweet  verses  saith 

Within  his  soul,  and  joys  in  music  there, 

Nor  seeks  another  heaven,  nor  can  bear 

Disturbing  pleasures,  so  was  she  content, 

Breathing  the  life  of  grateful  sentiment. 

She  thought  no  maid  betrothed  could  be  more  blest; 

For  treasure  must  be  valued  by  the  test 

Of  highest  excellence  and  rarity. 

And  her  dear  joy  was  best  as  best  could  be; 

There  seemed  no  other  crown  to  her  delight 

Now  the  high  loved  one  saw  her  love  aright. 

Thus  her  soul  thriving  on  that  exquit^ite  mood, 

Spuead  like  the  May-time  all  its  beauteous  good 

O'er  the  soft,  bloom  of  ueck,  and  arms,  and  cheek, 

And  strengthened  the  sweet  body,  once  so  weak, 

Until  she  rose  and  walked,  and,  like  a  bird 

With  sweetly  rippling  throat,  she  made  her  spring  joys  heard. 

The  king,  when  he  the  happy  change  bad  seen, 

Trusted  the  ear  of  ConstaTice,  his  fair  queen, 

With  Lisa's  innocent  secret,  and  conferred 

IIow  they  should  jointly,  by  their  deed  and  word, 

Honor  this  maiden's  love,  which,  like  the  prayer 

Of  loyal  hermits,  never  thought  to  share 

In  what  it  gave.     The  queen  had  that  chief  grace 

Of  womanhood,  a  heart  that  can  embrace 

All  goodness  in  another  woman's  fiirm  ; 

And  that  same  day,  ere  the  sun  lay  too  warm 

On  southern  terraces,  a  messenger 

Informed  Bernardo  that  the  royal  pair 

Would  straightway  visit  him  and  celebrate 

Their  gladness  at  his  daughter's  happier  state. 

Which  they  were  fain  to  see.     Soon  came  the  king 

On  horseback,  with  his  barons,  heralding 

The  advent  of  the  queen  in  courtly  state; 

And  all,  descending  at  the  garden  gate. 

Streamed  with  their  feathers,  velvet,  and  brocade. 

Through  the  pleached  alleys,  till  they,  pausing,  made 


00  now  USA  LOVED  THE  KINO. 

A  lake  of  splendor  'mid  the  aloes  ^T:\y — 

"VVhci-c,  meekly  facing  all  theii-  proud  array, 

The  white-robed  Lisa  with  her  pareuls  stood, 

As  sonic  white  dove  before  the  gorgeous  brood 

Of  dapple-breasted  birds  boru  by  the  Colchiaii  flood. 

The  king  and  queen,  by  gracious  looks  and  sjieech, 

ICncoiirag^  her,  and  thus  their  courtiers  teach 

IIuw  this  fair  morning  they  may  courtliest  be 

By  making  Lisa  pass  it  liappily. 

And  soon  the  ladies  and  tlie  barons  all 

Draw  her  by  turns,  as  at  a  festival 

Made  for  her  sake,  to  easy,  gay  discourse. 

And  compliment  with  looks  and  smiles  enforce  ; 

A  joyous  hum  is  heard  the  gardens  round  ; 

Koou  there  is  Spanish  dancing  and  the  sound 

Of  minstrel's  song,  and  autumn  fruits  are  plucked; 

Till  mindfully  the  king  and  queen  conduct 

Lisa  apart  to  where  a  trellised  sliade 

Made  pleasant  resting.    Then  King  Pedro  said — 

"Excellent  maiden,  that  rich  gift  of  love 

Your  heart  hath  made  us,  hath  a  worth  above 

All  royal  treasures,  nor  is  fitly  met 

Save  when  the  grateful  memory  of  deep  debt 

Lies  still  behind  the  outward  honors  done : 

And  as  a  sign  that  no  oblivion 

Shall  overflood  that  faithful  memory. 

We  while  we  live  your  cavalier  will  be. 

Nor  will  we  ever  arm  ourselves  for  fight, 

Whether  for  struggle  dire  or  brief  delight 

Of  warlike  feigning,  but  we  first  M'ill  take 

The  colors  you  ordain,  and  for  your  sake 

Charge  the  more  bravely  where  your  emblem  is ; 

Nor  will  we  ever  claim  an  added  bliss 

To  our  sweet  thoughts  of  you  save  one  sole  kiss. 

But  there  still  rests  the  outward  honor  meet 

To  mark  your  wortliiness,  and  we  entreat 

That  you  will  turn  your  ear  to  proffered  vows 

Of  one  who  loves  you,  and  would  be  your  spouse. 

We  must  not  wrong  yourself  and  Sicily 

By  letting  all  your  blooming  years  pass  by 

Unmated:  you  will  give  the  world  its  due 

From  beauteous  maiden  and  become  a  matron  true."' 

Then  Lisa,  wrapt  in  virgin  wonderment 

At  her  ambitious  love's  complete  content, 

Which  left  no  further  good  for  her  to  seek 

Thau  love's  obedience,  said  with  accent  meek— 

"Monsignor,  I  know  well  that  were  it  known 

To  all  the  world  how  higli  my  love  had  flown. 

There  would  be  few  who  would  not  deem  inc  mad, 

Or  say  my  mind  the  fal.scst  image  had 

Of  my  condition  and  your  lofty  place. 

But  heaven  has  seen  that  for  no  moment's  space 

Have  I  forgotten  you  to  be  the  king, 

Or  me  myself  to  be  a  lowly  thing— 

A  little  lark,  enamoured  of  the  sky, 

That  soared  to  sing,  to  break  its  breast,  and  die. 


UOW  LISA  LOVED  THE  KIKG.  61 

But,  as  you  better  know  than  I,  the  heart 
In  choosing  chooseth  not  its  own  desert, 
But  that  great  merit  which  attracteth  it ; 
'Tis  law,  I  strnggled,  Ijnt  I  must  submit, 
And  having  seen  a  wortli  all  worth  above, 
1  loved  you,  love  you,  and  shall  always  love. 
But  that  doth  mean,  my  will  is  ever  yours. 
Not  only  when  your  will  my  good  insures. 
But  if  it  wrought  me  what  the  world  calls  harm- 
Fire,  wounds,  would  wear  from  your  dear  will  a  charm. 
That  you  will  be  my  knight  is  full  content. 
And  for  that  kiss— I  pray,  first  for  the  queen's  conscut." 

Eer  answer,  given  with  such  firm  gentleness. 

Pleased  the  queen  well,  and  made  her  hold  no  less 

Of  Lisa's  merit  than  the  king  had  held. 

And  so,  all  cloudy  threats  of  grief  dispelled, 

There  was  betrothal  made  that  very  morn 

'Twixt  Perdicone,  youthful,  brave,  well-born. 

And  Lisa,  whom  he  loved ;  she  loving  well 

The  lot  that  from  obedience  befell. 

The  queen  a  rare  betrothal  ring  ou  each 

Bestowed,  and  other  gems,  with  gracious  speech. 

And  that  no  joy  might  lack,  the  king,  who  knew 

Tlie  youth  was  poor,  gave  him  rich  Ceffalu 

And  Catalctta,  large  and  fruitful  lands — 

Adding  much  promise  when  he  joined  their  hands. 

At  last  he  said  to  Lisa,  with  an  air 

Gallant  yet  noble:  "Now  we  claim  our  share 

From  your  sweet  love,  a  share  which  is  not  small: 

For  in  the  sacrament  one  crumb  is  all." 

Then  taking  her  small  face  his  hands  between, 

lie  kissed  her  on  the  brow  with  kiss  serene, 

Fit  seal  to  that  pure  vision  her  young  soul  had  seen. 

Sicilians  witnessed  that  King  Pedro  kept 
Ilis  royal  promise:  Perdicone  slept 
To  many  honors  honorably  won. 
Living  with  Lisa  in  true  union. 
Throughout  his  life  the  king  still  took  delight 
To  call  himself  fair  Lisa's  faithful  knight; 
And  never  wore  in  field  or  tournament 
A  scarf  or  emblem  save  by  Lisa  sent 

Such  deeds  made  subjects  loyal  in  that  land  : 

They  joyed  that  one  so  worthy  to  command, 

So  chivalrous  and  gentle,  had  become 

The  king  of  Sicily,  and  filled  the  room 

Of  Frenchmen,  who  abused  the  Church's  trust, 

Till,  in  a  righteous  vengeance  on  their  lust, 

Messina  rose,  with  God,  and  with  the  dagger's  thrust. 

L'Envoi. 

Reader,  this  story  pleaded  mc  lonr/  ago 

In  thf  hrvjht  pagcfi  of  Doccaccin, 

And  where  the  avthor  of  a  good  )«p  know, 

Let  rta  not  fail  to  pay  the  yratiful  thanks  we,  owe. 


1S69. 


A    MINOR  rROrHET. 

I  iiAVF.  a  fi'iend,  a  vegetarian  seer, 

By  name  Elias  IJaptist,  IJutterwoitli, 

A  harmless  bland,  disinterested  man, 

Whose  ancestors  in  Cromwell's  day  believed 

The  Second  Advent  certain  iu  five  years, 

But  when  King  Charles  the  Second  came  instead. 

Revised  their  date  and  sought  another  world: 

I  mean — not  heaven  but— America. 

A  fervid  stock,  whose  generous  hope  embraced 

The  fortunes  of  mankind,  not  stopping  short 

At  rise  of  leather,  or  the  fall  of  gold, 

Nor  listening  to  the  voices  of  the  time 

As  housewives  listen  to  a  cackling  hen, 

With  wonder  whether  she  has  laid  her  egg 

On  their  own  nest-egg.     Still  they  did  insist. 

Somewhat  too  wearisomely  on  the  joys 

Of  their  Millennium,  when  coats  and  liats 

Would  all  be  of  one  pattern,  books  and  songs 

AH  fit  for  Sundays,  and  the  casual  talk 

As  good  as  sermons  preached  extempore. 

And  in  Elias  the  ancestral  zeal 

Breathes  strong  as  ever,  only  modified 

By  Transatlantic  air  and  modern  thought. 

You  could  not  pass  him  in  the  street  and  fail 

To  note  his  shoulders'  long  declivity. 

Beard  to  the  waist,  swan-neck,  and  large  palo  eyes; 

Or,  when  he  lifts  his  hat,  to  mark  his  hair 

Brushed  back  to  show  his  great  capacity — 

A  full  grain's  length  at  the  angle  of  the  brow 

Proving  him  witty,  while  the  shallower  men 

Only  seem  witty  iu  their  repartees. 

Not  that  he's  vain,  but  that  his  doctrine  needs 

The  testimony  of  his  frontal  lobe. 

On  all  points  he  adopts  the  latest  views; 

Takes  for  the  key  of  universal  Mind 

The  "levitation"  of  stout  gentlemen; 

Believes  the  Rappings  are  not  spirits'  work, 

But  the  Thought-atmosphere's,  a  steam  of  brains 

In  correlated  force  of  raps,  as  proved 

By  motion,  heat,  and  science  generally; 

The  spectrum,  for  example,  which  has  shown 

The  self-same  metals  in  the  sun  as  liere ; 

.90  the  Thought-atmosphere  is  everywhere: 

High  truths  that  glimmered  under  other  names 


A  MINOR  PROPnET.  63 

To  ancient  sages,  whence  good  scholarship 

Applied  to  Eleusiiiian  mysteries — 

The  Vedas — Tripitaka— Vendidad— 

Might  furnish  weaker  i)roof  for  weaker  miuds 

That  Thought  was  rapping  in  tlie  lioary  past, 

And  might  have  edifled  the  Greeks  by  raps 

At  the  greater  Dionysia,  if  their  ears 

Had  not  been  filled  with  Sophocleau  verse. 

And  when  all  Earth  is  vegetarian— 

When,  lacking  butchers,  quadrupeds  die  out, 

And  less  Thought-atmospliere  is  reabsorbed 

By  nerves  of  insects  parasitical. 

Those  higher  truths,  seized  now  by  higher  minds 

But  not  ex))ressed  (the  insects  hindering) 

AVill  either  flash  out  into  eloquence, 

Or  better  still,  be  comprehensible 

By  rappings  simply,  without  need  of  roots. 

'Tis  on  this  theme — the  vegetarian  world — 

That  good  Elias  willingly  expands  : 

lie  loves  to  tell  in  mildly  nasal  tones 

And  vowels  stretclied  to  suit  the  widest  views. 

The  future  fortunes  of  our  infant  Earth — 

When  it  will  be  too  full  of  human  kind 

To  have  the  room  for  wilder  animals. 

Saith  he,  Sahara  will  be  populous 

With  families  of  gentlemen  retired 

From  commerce  in  more  Central  Africa, 

Who  order  coolness  as  we  order  coal, 

And  have  a  lobe  anterior  strong  enough 

To  think  away  the  sand-storms.     Science  thus 

Will  leave  no  spot  on  this  terraqueous  globe 

Unfit  to  be  inhabited  by  man. 

The  chief  of  animals:  all  meaner  brutes 

Will  have  been  smoked  and  elbowed  out  of  lifu. 

No  lions  then  shall  lap  OafFrarian  pools. 

Or  shake  the  Atlas  with  their  midnight  roar: 

Even  the  slow,  slime-loving  crocodile. 

The  last  of  animals  to  take  a  hint. 

Will  then  retire  forever  from  a  scene 

Where  public  feeling  strongly  sets  against  him. 

Fishes  may  lead  carnivorous  lives  obscure, 

But  must  not  dream  of  culinary  rank 

Or  being  dished  in  good  society. 

Imagination  in  that  distant  age. 

Aiming  at  fiction  called  historical, 

Will  vainly  try  to  reconstruct  the  times 

When  it  was  men's  preposterous  delight 

To  sit  astride  live  horses,  which  consumed 

Material's  for  incalculable  cakes; 

When  there  were  milkmaids  who  drew  milk  from  cows 

With  udders  kept  abnormal  for  that  end 

Since  the  rude  mythopceic  jieriod 

Of  Aryan  dairymen,  who  did  not  blush 

To  call  their  milkmaid  and  their  daughter  cue — 

Ilidplcssly  gazing  at  the  Milky  Way 

Nor  dreaming  of  the  astral  cocoa-uuts 


64  A  MINOll  PllOPHET. 

Quite  at  tho  service  of  posterity. 
'Tis  to  be  feared,  thonsli,  that  tlie  diillcr  boyo, 
Much  given  to  anachronisms  and  nuts 
(Elias  has  confessed  boys  will  be  boys) 
May  write  a  jockey  for  a  centaur,  think 
Europu's  suitor  was  an  Irish  bull, 
.^sop  a  journalist  who  wrote  up  Fox, 
And  Bruin  a  chief  swindler  ui)ou  'Change. 
Boys  will  be  boys,  but  dogs  will  all  be  moral, 
With  longer  alimentary  canals 
Suited  to  diet  vegetarian. 
The  uglier  breeds  will  fade  from  memory, 
Or,  being  pala;ontological, 
Live  but  as  portraits  in  large  learned  books, 
Distasteful  to  the  feelings  of  an  age 
Nourished  on  purest  beauty.    Earth  will  hold 
No  stupid  brutes,  no  cheerful  queerncsses. 
No  naive  cunning,  grave  absurdity. 
Wart-pigs  with  tender  and  parental  grunts. 
Wombats  much  flattened  as  to  their  contour. 
Perhaps  from  too  much  crushing  in  the  ark, 
Bujt  taking  meekly  that  fatality; 
The  serious  cranes,  unstung  by  ridicule ; 
Long-headed,  short-legged,  solemn-looking  curs, 
(Wise,  silent  critics  of  a  flippant  age); 
The  silly,  straddling  foals,  the  weak-brained  geese 
Hissing  fallaciously  at  sound  of  wheels- 
All  these  rude  products  will  have  disappeared 
Along  with  every  faulty  human  type. 
By  dint  of  diet  vegetarian 
All  will  be  harmony  of  hue  and  line, 
Bodies  and  minds  all  perfect,  limbs  wcll-turued, 
And  talk  quite  free  from  aught  erroneous. 

Thus  far  Elias  in  his  seer's  mantle: 

But  at  this  climax  in  his  prophecy 

My  sinking  spirits,  fearing  to  be  swamped, 

Urge  me  to  speak.     "  High  prospects  these,  my  friend, 

Setting  the  weak  carnivorous  brain  nstretch  ; 

We  will  resume  the  thread  another  day." 

"To-morrow,"  cries  Elias,"  "at  this  hour?" 

"No,  not  to-morrow— I  shall  have  a  cold — 

At  least  I  feel  some  soreness — this  endemic — 

Good-bye." 

No  tears  are  sadder  than  the  smile 
With  which  I  quit  Elias.    Bitterly 
I  feel  that  every  change  upon  this  earth 
Is  bought  with  sacrifice.     My  yearnings  fail 
To  reach  that  high  apocalyptic  mount 
Which  shows  in  bird's-eye  view  a  perfect  world. 
Or  enter  warmly  into  other  joys 
Than  those  of  faulty,  struggling  human  kind. 
That  strain  upon  my  soul's  too  feeble  wing 
Ends  in  ignoble  floundering:  I  fall 
Into  short-sighted  pity  for  the  men 
Who  living  in  tliose  perfect  future  times 
Will  not  know  half  the  dear  imperfect  things 


A  MIKOK  PROPIIET.  65 

That  move  my  smiles  and  tears— will  uever  know 

The  line  old  incougiuities  that  raise 

My  friendly  laugh  ;  the  inuoceut  conceits 

That  like  a  needless  eyeglass  or  black  patch 

Give  those  who  wear  them  harmless  happiness ; 

The  twists  and  cracks  in  our  poor  earthenware, 

That  touch  me  to  more  conscious  fellowship 

(I  am  not  myself  the  linest  Parian) 

With  my  coevals.    So  poor  Colin  Clout, 

To  whom  raw  onion  gives  prospective  zest. 

Consoling  hours  of  dampest  wintry  work, 

Could  hardly  fancy  any  regal  joys 

Quite  unimpregnate  with  the  onion's  scent: 

Perhaps  his  highest  hopes  are  not  all  clear 

Of  wafiings  from  that  energetic  bulb; 

'Tis  well  that  onion  is  not  heresy. 

Speaking  in  parable,  I  am  Colin  Clout. 

A  clinging  flavor  jienelrates  my  life— 

My  onion  is  imperfectness:    I  cleave 

To  nature's  blunders,  evanescent  types 

Which  sages  banish  from  Utopia. 

"Not  worship  beauty?"  say  you.    Patience,  friend ! 

I  worship  in  the  temple  with  the  rest; 

But  by  my  hearth  I  keep  a  sacred  nook 

For  gnomes  and  dwarfs,  duck-footed  waddling  elves 

Who  stitched  and  hammered  for  the  weary  man 

In  days  of  old.    And  in  that  piety 

I  clothe  ungainly  forms  inherited 

From  toiling  generations,  daily  bent 

At  desk,  or  plough,  or  loom,  or  in  the  mine, 

In  pioneering  labors  for  the  world. 

Nay,  I  am  apt  when  floundering  confused 

From  too  rash  flight,  to  grasp  at  parados. 

And  pity  future  men  who  will  not  know 

A  keen  experience  with  pity  blent, 

The  pathos  exquisite  of  lovely  minds 

Hid  in  harsh  forms— not  penetrating  them 

Like  fire  divine  within  a  common  bush 

Which  glows  transfigured  by  the  heavenly  guest, 

So  that  men  put  their  shoes  off;  but  encaged 

Like  a  sweet  child  within  some  thick-walled  cell, 

Who  leaps  and  fails  to  hold  the  window-bars, 

But  having  shown  a  little  dimpled  hand 

Is  visited  thenceforth  by  tender  hearts 

Whose  eyes  keep  watch  about  the  prison  walls. 

A  foolish,  nay,  a  wicked  paradox  ! 

For  purest  pity  is  the  eye  of  love 

Melting  at  sight  of  sorrow ;  and  to  grieve 

Because  it  sees  no  sorrow,  shows  a  love 

Warped  from  its  truer  nature,  turned  to  love 

Of  merest  habit,  like  the  raiser's  greed. 

But  I  am  Colin  still:  my  prejudice 

Is  for  the  flavor  of  my  daily  food. 

Not  that  I  doubt  the  world  is  growing  still 

As  once  it  grew  from  Chaos  and  from  Night; 

Or  have  a  soul  too  shrunken  for  the  hope 

Which  dawned  in  human  breasts,  a  double  morn, 

18  D 


66  A  MINOll  PKOrilET. 

With  eailiost  watchings  of  the  rising  light 
Chasing  thi;  darliiicss;  and  tlirougli  many  an  age 
Has  raised  tlio  vision  of  a  fiUnre  time 
Tlial  stands  an  yVngel  with  a  face  all  mild 
Spearing  the  demon.    I  too  rest  in  faith 
That  man's  jieifection  is  the  crowning  flower, 
Toward  which  the  urgent  sap  in  life's  great  tree 
Is  i)ressing — seen  iu  pnny  blossoms  now, 
But  in  the  world's  great  morrows  to  expand 
With  broadest  petal  and  with  deepest  glow. 

Yet,  see  the  patched  and  plodding  citizen 

Waiting  upon  the  pavement  with  the  throng 

While  some  victorious  world-hero  makes 

Triumphal  entry,  and  the  peal  of  shouts 

And  thvsh  of  faces  'ueath  uplifted  hats 

Run  like  a  storm  of  joy  along  the  streets ! 

lie  says,  "God  bless  him!"  ahnost  with  a  sob. 

As  the  great  hero  passes  ;  he  is  glad 

The  world  holds  mighty  men  and  mighty  deeds; 

The  music  stirs  his  pulses  like  strong  wine. 

The  moving  splendor  touches  him  with  awe — 

'Tis  glory  shed  around  the  common  weal, 

And  he  will  pay  his  tribute  willingly, 

Though  with  the  pennies  earned  by  sordid  toil. 

Perhaps  the  hero's  deeds  have  helped  to  bring 

A  time  when  every  honest  citizen 

Shall  wear  a  coat  unpatched.     And  yet  he  feels 

More  easy  fellowship  with  neighbors  there 

Who  look  ou  too;  and  he  will  soon  relapse 

From  noticing  the  banners  and  the  steeds 

To  think  with  pleasure  there  is  just  one  bun 

Left  iu  his  pocket,  that  may  serve  to  tempt 

The  wide-eyed  lad,  whose  weight  is  all  too  much 

For  that  young  mother's  arms:  and  then  he  falls 

To  dreamy  picturing  of  sunny  days 

When  he  himself  was  a  small  big-cheeked  lad 

In  some  far  village  where  no  heroes  came, 

And  stood  a  listener  'twixt  his  father's  legs 

In  the  warm  fire-light,  while  the  old  folk  talked 

And  shook  their  heads  and  looked  upon  the  floor; 

And  he  was  puzzled,  thinking  life  was  fine— 

The  bread  and  cheese  so  nice  all  through  the  year 

And  Christmas  sure  to  come.    Oh  that  good  time ! 

He,  could  he  choose,  would  have  those  days  again 

And  see  the  dear  old-fashioned  things  once  more. 

But  soon  the  wheels  and  drums  have  all  passed  by 

And  tramping  feet  are  heard  like  sudden  rain: 

The  quiet  startles  our  good  citizen  ; 

He  feels  the  child  upon  his  arms,  and  knows 

He  is  with  the  people  making  holiday 

Because  of  hopes  for  better  days  to  come. 

But  Hope  to  him  was  like  the  brilliant  west 

Telling  of  sunrise  in  a  world  unknown. 

And  from  that  dazzling  curtain  of  bri'jflit  hues 

He  turned  to  the  familiar  face  of  HcUIh 

Lyiug  all  clear  in  the  calm  morning  land. 


A  MINOR  PUOPHET.  67 

Maybe  'tis  wiser  not  to  fix  a  lens 

Too  scrutinizing  on  the  glorious  times 

When  Barbarossa  shall  arise  aiul  shake 

His  mountain,  good  King  Arthur  come  again, 

And  all  the  heroes  of  such  giant  soul 

That,  living  once  to  cheer  maukiud  with  hope, 

They  had  to  sleep  until  the  time  was  ripe 

For  greater  deeds  to  match  their  greater  thought. 

Yet  no !  the  earth  yields  nothing  more  divine 

Thau  high  prophetic  vision— than  the  Seer 

Who  fasting  from  man's  meaner  joy  beholds 

The  paths  of  beauteous  order,  and  constructa 

A  fairer  type,  to  shame  our  low  content 

But  prophecy  is  like  potential  sound 

Which  turned  to  music  seems  a  voice  sublime 

From  out  the  soul  of  light;  but  turns  to  noise 

In  scrannel  pipes,  and  makes  all  ears  averse. 

The  faith  that  life  on  earth  is  being  shaped 

To  glorious  ends,  that  order,  justice,  love 

Mean  man's  completeness,  mean  effect  as  sure 

As  roundness  in  the  dew-drop— that  great  faith 

Is  but  the  rushing  and  expanding  stream 

Of  thought,  of  feeling,  fed  by  all'the  past. 

Our  finest  hope  is  finest  memory. 

As  they  who  love  in  age  think  youth  is  blest 

Because  it  has  a  life  to  fill  with  lova. 

Full  souls  are  double  mirrors,  making  still 

An  endless  vista  of  fair  things  before 

Repeating  things  behind ;   so  faith  is  strong 

Only  when  we  are  strong,  shrinks  when  we  shrink 

It  comes  when  music  stirs  us,  and  the  chords 

Moving  ou  some  grand  climax  shake  our  souls 

With  influx  new  that  makes  new  enei-gies. 

It  aimes  in  swellings  of  the  heart  and  tears 

That  rise  at  noble  and  at  gentle  deeds — 

At  labors  of  the  master-artist's  hand 

Which,  trembling,  touches  to  a  liner  end, 

Trembling  before  au  image  seen  within. 

It  comes  in  moments  of  heroic  love, 

Unjealous  joy  in  joy  not  made  for  us^ 

In  conscious  triumph  of  the  good  within 

Making  us  worship  goodness  that  rebulces. 

Even  our  failures  are  a  prophecy, 

Even  our  yearnings  and  our  bitter  tears 

After  that  fair  and  true  we  cannot  grasp; 

As  patriots  who  seem  to  die  in  vain 

Make  liberty  more  sacred  by  their  pangs. 

Presentiment  of  better  things  on  earth 
Sweeps  in  with  every  force  that  stirs  our  souls 
To  admiration,  self-renouncing  love. 
Or  thoughts,  like  light,  that  bind  the  world  in  one 
Sweeps  like  the  sense  of  vastness,  when  at  night 
We  hear  the  roll  and  dash  of  waves  that  break 
Nearer  and  nearer  with  the  rushing  tide. 
Which  rises  to  the  level  of  the  cliff 
Because  the  wide  Atlantic  rolls  behind 
Throbbing  respondent  to  the  far-off  orbs. 


BROTHER   AND   SISTER. 


I. 

I  oannOt  choose  but  think  upon  the  time 
When  our  two  lives  grew  lilce  two  buds  that  kiss 
At  lightest  thrill  from  the  bee's  swinging  chime, 
Because  the  one  so  near  the  other  is. 

He  was  the  elder  and  a  little  man 
Of  forty  inches,  bound  to  show  no  dread, 
And  I  the  girl  that  puppy-like  now  ran, 
Now  lagged  behind  my  brother's  larger  tread. 

I  held  him  Avise,  and  when  he  talked  to  nie 
Of  snakes  and  birds,  and  which  God  loved  the  best, 
I  thought  his  knowledge  marked  the  boundary 
Where  men  grew  blind,  though  angels  knew  the  rest. 

If  he  said  "Hush !"  I  tried  to  hold  my  breath; 
Wherever  he  said  "Come!"  I  stepped  in  faith. 

II. 
Long  years  have  left  their  writing  on  my  brow, 
But  yet  the  freshness  and  the  dew-fed  beam 
Of  those  young  mornings  are  about  me  now, 
When  we  two  waudered  toward  the  far-off  stream 

With  rod  and  line.    Onr  basket  held  a  store 
Baked  for  us  only,  and  I  thought  with  joy 
That  I  should  have  my  share,  though  he  had  more, 
Because  he  was  the  elder  and  a  boy. 

The  firmaments  of  daisies  since  to  me 
Have  had  those  mornings  in  their  opening  eyes, 
The  bunched  cowslip's  pale  transparency 
Carries  that  sunshine  of  sweet  memories. 

And  wild-rose  branches  take  their  finest  scent 
From  those  blest  hours  of  infantine  content. 

III. 

Onr  mother  bade  us  keep  the  trodden  ways. 
Stroked  down  my  tippet,  set  my  brother's  frill, 
Tbeu  with  the  benediction  of  her  gaze 
Clung  to  us  lessening,  and  pursued  us  still 

Across  the  homestead  to  the  rookery  elms, 
Whose  tall  old  trunks  had  each  a  grassy  mound, 
So  rich  for  us,  we  counted  them  as  realms 
With  varied  products:  here  were  earth-nuts  found, 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER.  69 

And  here  the  Lady-flngers  in  deep  shade; 
Here  sloping  toward  the  Moat  the  rushes  grew, 
The  hirge  to  split  for  pith,  the  small  to  braid; 
While  over  all  the  dark  rooks  cawing  flew. 

And  made  a  happy  strange  solemnity, 

A  deep-toned  chant  from  life  unknown  to  me. 


Our  meadow-path  had  memorable  spots: 
One  where  it  bridged  a  tiny  rivulet, 
Deep  hid  by  tangled  blue  Forget-me-nots ; 
And  all  along  the  waving  grasses  met 

My  little  palm,  or  nodded  to  my  cheek. 
When  flowei's  with  upturned  faces  gazing  drew 
My  wonder  downward,  seeming  all  to  speak 
With  eyes  of  souls  that  durably  heard  and  knew. 

Then  came  the  copse,  where  wild  things  rushed  unseen. 
And  black-scathed  grass  betrayed  the  past  abode 
Of  mystic  gypsies,  who  still  lurked  between 
Me  and  each  hidden  distance  of  the  road. 

A  gypsy  once  had  startled  me  at  play. 
Blotting  with  her  dark  smile  my  sunny  day. 


Thus  rambling  we  were  schooled  in  deepest  lore, 
And  learned  the  meanings  that  give  words  a  soul. 
The  fear,  the  love,  the  primal  passionate  store. 
Whose  shaping  impulses  make  manhood  whole. 

Those  hours  were  seed  to  all  my  after  good; 
My  infant  gla'dness,  through  eye,  ear,  and  touch. 
Took  easily  as  warmth  a  various  food 
To  nourish  the  sweet  skill  of  loving  much. 

For  who  in  age  shall  roam  the  earth  and  find 
Reasons  for  loving  that  will  strike  ont  love 
With  sudden  rod  from  the  hard  year-pressed  mind? 
Were  reasons  sown  as  thick  as  stars  above, 

'Tis  love  must  see  them,  as  the  eye  sees  light: 
Day  is  but  Number  to  the  darkened  sight. 


Our  brown  canal  was  endless  to  my  thought; 
And  on  its  banks  I  sat  in  dreamy  peace, 
Unknowing  how  the  good  I  loved  was  wrought, 
Untroubled  by  the  fear  that  it  would  cease. 

Slowly  the  barges  floated  into  view 
Rounding  a  grassy  hill  to  me  sublime 
With  some  Unknown  beyond  it,  whither  flew 
The  parting  cuckoo  toward  a  fresh  spring  time. 


70  KKOTnER  AND   SISTETl. 

The  widc-ai-chctl  bridge,  the  scented  clder-flowcrs, 
The  wondrous  watery  rings  that  died  too  soon, 
The  cclious  of  llic  quarry,  the  still  hours 
With  white  robe  sweepiug-on  the  shadelcss  noon, 

Were  but  my  growing  self,  are  pai  t  of  me 
My  present  Past,  my  root  of  piety. 


Those  long  days  measured  by  my  little  feet 
Had  chronicles  which  yield  me  many  a  text ; 
Where  irony  still  finds  an  image  meet 
Of  full-grown  judgments  in  this  world  perplest. 

One  day  my  brother  left  me  in  high  charge, 
To  mind  the  rod,  while  he  went  seeking  bait, 
And  bade  me,  when  I  saw  a  nearing  barge. 
Snatch  out  the  line,  lest  he  should  come  too  late. 

Proad  of  the  task,  I  watched  with  all  my  might 
For  one  whole  minute,  till  my  eyes  grew  wide. 
Till  sky  and  earth  took  on  a  strange  new  light 
And  iscemed  a  dream-world  floating  on  some  tide- 

A  fair  pavilioned  boat  for  me  alone 

Bearing  me  onward  through  the  vast  unknown. 


But  sudden  came  the  barge's  pitch-black  prow. 
Nearer  and  angrier  came  my  brother's  cry, 
And  all  my  soul  was  quivering  fear,  when  lo ! 
Upon  the  imperilled  line,  suspended  high, 

A  silver  perch !    My  guilt  that  won  the  prey. 
Now  turned  to  merit,  had  a  guerdon  rich 
Of  hugs  and  praises,  and  made  meny  play, 
Until  my  triumph  reached  its  hiuhest  pitch 

When  all  at  home  were  told  the  wondrous  feat. 
And  how  the  little  sister  had  fished  well. 
In  secret,  though  my  fortune  tasted  sweet, 
I  wondered  why  this  happiness  befell. 

"The  little  lass  had  luck,"  the  gardener  said: 
And  BO  I  learned,  luck  was  with  glory  wed. 


We  had  the  self-same  world  enlarged  for  each 
By  loving  difference  of  girl  and  boy: 
The  fruit  that  hung  on  high  beyond  my  reach 
He  plucked  for  me,  and  oft  he  must  employ 

A  measuring  glance  to  guide  my  tiny  shoe 
Where  lay  firm  stepping-stones,  or  call  to  mind 
"This  thing  I  like  my  sister  may  not  do. 
For  she  is  little,  and  I  must  be  kind." 


BKOXnER  AND  BISTER.  71 

Thus  boyish  Will  the  nobler  mastery  learned 
Where  inward  vision  over  impulse  reigns, 
Widening  its  life  with  separate  life  discerned, 
A  Like  unlike,  a  Self  that  self  restrains. 

His  years  with  others  must  the  sweeter  be 
For  those  brief  days  he  spent  in  loving  me. 


His  sorrow  was  my  sorrow,  and  his  joy 

Sent  little  leaps  and  laughs  through  all  my  frame; 

My  doll  seemed  lifeless  and  no  girlish  toy 

Had  any  reason  when  my  brother  came. 

I  knelt  with  him  at  marbles,  marked  his  fling 
Cut  the  ringed  stem  and  make  the  apple  drop, 
Or  watched  him  winding  close  the  spiral  string 
That  looped  the  orbits  of  the  humming  top. 

Grasped  by  such  fellowship  my  vagrant  thonght 
Ceased  with  dream-fruit  dream-wishes  to  fulfil; 
My  ac'ry-picturing  fantasy  was  taught 
Subjection  to  the  harder,  truer  skill 

That  seeks  with  deeds  to  grave  a  thought-tracked  line, 
And  by  "What  is,"  "What  will  be"  to  define. 


School  parted  us;  we  never  found  again 
That  childish  world  where  our  two  spirits  mingled 
Like  scents  from  varying  roses  that  remain 
One  sweetness,  nor  can  evermore  be  singled. 

Yet  the  twin  habit  of  that  early  time 
Lingered  for  long  about  the  heart  and  tongue: 
We  had  been  natives  of  one  happy  clime, 
And  its  dear  accent  to  our  utterance  clung. 

Till  the  dire  years  whose  awful  name  is  Change 
Had  grasped  our  souls  still  yearning  in  divorce, 
And  pitiless  shaped  them  in  two  forms  that  range 
Two  elements  which  sever  their  life's  course. 

But  were  another  childhood-world  my  share, 
I  would  be  born  a  little  sister  there. 


1S69. 


STRADIVARIUS. 

YoTTR  Boul  was  liftccl  by  the  wiugs  to-dny 

Hcai-iiig  the  master  of  the  violiu: 

You  praised  him,  praised  the  great  Scliastian  too 

Who  made  that  flue  Chacomie ;  but  did  you  think 

Of  old  Antouio  Stradivari? — him 

Who  a  good  century  and  half  ago 

Put  his  true  work  in  that  brown  instrument 

And  by  the  nice  adjustment  of  its  frame 

Gave  it  responsive  life,  continuous 

With  the  master's  finger-tips  and  perfected 

Like  them  by  delicate  rectitude  of  use. 

Not  Bach  alone,  helped  by  fine  procedeut 

Of  genius  gone  before,  nor  Joachim 

Who  holds  the  strain  afresh  incorporate 

By  inward  hearing  and  notation  strict 

Of  nerve  and  muscle,  made  our  joy  to-day: 

Another  soUl  was  living  in  the  air 

And  swaying  it  to  true  deliverance 

Of  high  invention  and  responsive  skill— 

That  plain  white-aproned  man  who  stood  at  work 

Patient  and  accurate  full  fourscore  years. 

Cherished  his  sight  and  touch  by  temperance. 

And  since  keen  sense  is  love  of  pcrfcctness 

Made  perfect  violins,  the  needed  paths 

For  inspiration  and  high  mastery. 

No  simpler  man  than  he:  he  never  cried, 
"Why  was  I  born  to  this  monotonous  task 
Of  making  violins?"  or  flung  them  down 
To  suit  with  hurling  act  a  well-hurled  curse 
At  labor  on  such  perishable  stuff. 
Eence  neighbors  iu  Cremona  held  him  dull, 
Called  him  a  slave,  a  mill-horse,  a  machine, 
Begged  him  to  tell  his  motives  or  to  lend 
A  few  gold  pieces  to  a  loftier  mind. 
Yet  he  had  pithy  words  full  fed  by  fact ; 
For  Pact,  well-trusted,  reasons  and  persuades, 
Is  gnomic,  cutting,  or  ironical, 
Draws  tears,  or  is  a  tocsin  to  arouse — 
Can  hold  all  figures  of  the  orator 
In  one  plain  sentence ;  has  her  pauses  too- 
Eloquent  silence  at  the  chasm  abrnpt 
Where  knowledge  ceases.     Thus  Antonio 
Made  answers  as  Fact  willed,  .and  made  them  strong. 

Naldo,  a  painter  of  eclectic  school. 
Taking  his  dicers,  candlelight,  and  griua 


8TRADIVARIUS.  73 

From  Caravaggio,  and  in  holier  groups 
Combining  Flemish  flesh  with  martyrdom- 
Knowing  all  tricks  of  style  at  thirty-one, 
And  weary  of  them,  while  Antonio 
At  sixty-nine  wrought  placidly  his  best 
Making  the  violin  you  heard  to-day — 
Naldo  would  tease  him  oft  to  tell  his  aim?. 
"Perhaps  thou  hast  some  pleasant  vice  to  feed — 
The  love  of  louis  d'ors  in  heaps  of  four. 
Each  violin  a  heap — I've  nought  to  blame ; 
My  vices  waste  such  heaps.    But  then,  why  work 
With  jiainful  nicety  ?    Since  fame  once  earned 
By  luck  or  merit^oftenest  by  luck — 
(Else  why  do  I  put  Bonifazio's  name 
To  work  that  '■pinxit  Naldo'  would  not  sell  ?) 
Is  welcome  index  to  the  wealthy  mob 
Where  they  should  pay  their  gold,  and  where  they  pay 
There  they  find  merit— take  your  tow  for  flax. 
And  hold  the  flax  unlabelled  with  your  name, 
Too  coarse  for  sufl'erance." 

Antonio  then : 
"I  like  the  gold — well,  yes — but  not  for  meals. 
And  as  my  stomach,  so  my  eye  and  hand, 
And  inwtird  sense  that  works  along  with  both, 
Have  hunger  that  can  never  feed  on  coin. 
Who  draws  a  line  and  satisfies  his  soul, 
Making  It  crooked  where  it  should  be  straight)' 
An  idiot  with  an  oyster-shell  may  draw 
His  lines  along  the  sand,  all  wavering, 
Fixing  no  point  or  pathway  to  a  point; 
An  idiot  one  remove  may  choose  his  line, 
Straggle  and  be  content;  but  God  be  praised, 
Antonio  Stradivari  has  an  eye 
That  winces  at  false  work  and  loves  the  true, 
With  band  and  arm  that  play  upon  the  tool 
As  willingly  as  any  singing  bird; 
Sets  him  to  sing  his  morning  roundelay. 
Because  he  likes  to  sing  and  likes  the  song." 

Then  Naldo  :  '"Tis  a  petty  kind  of  fame 
At  best,  that  comes  of  making  violins; 
And  saves  no  masses,  either.    Thou  wilt  go 
To  purgatory  none  the  less." 

But  he : 
"  'Twere  purgatory  here  to  make  them  ill ; 
And  for  my  fame — when  any  master  holds 
'Twist  chin  and  hand  a  violin  of  mine. 
He  will  be  glad  that  Stradivari  lived, 
Made  violins,  and  made  them  of  the  best. 
The  masters  only  know  whose  work  is  good : 
They  will  choose  mine,  and  while  God  gives  them  skill 
I  give  them  instruments  to  pl.ay  upon, 
God  choosing  me  to  help  Ilim." 

"What!  were  God 
At  fault  for  violins,  thou  absent  ?" 

"Yes; 
He  were  at  fault  for  Stradivari's  work." 

18*  1^* 


7i  STKADIVARIUS. 

"  Why,  many  hold  Giuseppe's  violins 
As  good  as  thine." 

"May  be:  they  arc  different. 
Ilia  quality  declines:  he  Ki)oiltf  liis  hand 
With  Dver-diinkiiiiif.    But  were  his  the  best, 
lie  could  not  woik  for  two.     My  work  is  mine, 
And,  heresy  or  not,  if  my  hand  Klackcd 
I  (Should  rob  God— since  He  is  fullest  good- 
Leaving  a  blank  instead  of  violins. 
I  say,  not  God  himself  can  make  man's  best 
Without  best  men  to  help  liim.    I  am  one  best 
Here  in  Cremona,  using  sunlight  well 
To  fashion  finest  maple  till  it  serves 
More  cunningly  than  throats,  for  harmony. 
'    'Tis  rare  delight:  I  would  not  change  my  skill 
To  be  the  Enii)eror  with  bungling  hands, 
And  lose  my  work,  which  comes  as  natural 
As  self  at  waking." 

"Thou  art  little  more 
Than  a  deft  potter's  wheel,  Antonio ; 
Turning  out  work  by  mere  necessity 
And  lack  of  varied  function.     Higher  arts 
Subsist  on  freedom — eccentricity — 
Uncouuted  inspirations — influence 

That  comes  with  drinking,  gambling,  talk  turned  wild, 
Then  moody  misery  and  lack  of  food— 
With  every  dithyrarabic  fine  excess : 
These  make  at  last  a  storm  which  flashes  out 
In  lightning  revelations.    Steady  work 
Turns  genius  to  a  loom ;  the  soul  must  lie 
,  Like  grapes  beneath  the  sun  till  ripeness  comes 
And  mellow  vintage.    I  could  paint  you  now 
The  finest  Crucifixion;  yesternight 
Returning  homo  I  saw  it  on  a  sky 
Blue-black,  thick-starred.    I  want  two  louis  d'ors 
To  buy  the  canvas  and  the  costly  blues- 
Trust  me  a  fixrtnight. " 

"Where  are  those  last  two 
I  lent  thee  foe  thy  Judith  ? — her  thou  saw'st 
In  saftVon  gown,  with  Iloloferues'  head 
And  beauty  all  complete?" 

"She  is  but  sketched: 
I  lack  the  proper  model— and  the  mood. 
A  great  idea  is  an  eagle's  egg, 
Craves  time  for  hatching ;  while  the  eagle  sits 
Feed  her." 

"If  thou  wilt  call  thy  pictures  eggs 
I  call  the  hatching,  Work.     'Tis  God  gives  skill. 
But  not  without  men's  hands:  He  could  not  make 
Antonio  Stradivari's  violins 
Without  Antonio.    Get  thee  to  thy  easel." 

18T3. 


A    COLLEGE   BREAKFAST-PARTY. 

YoDNO  Hamlet,  not  the  hesitating  Dane, 

But  one  named  after  him,  wlio  hiteiy  strove 

For  honors  at  our  Euglish  Wittenberg — 

Blond,  metaphysical,  and  sensuous, 

Questioning  all  things  and  yet  half  convinced 

Credulity  were  better ;  held  inert 

'Twixt  fascinations  of  all  opposites. 

And  half  suspecting  that  the  mightiest  soul 

(Perhaps  his  own  ?)  was  union  of  extremes, 

Having  no  choice  but  choice  of  everything: 

As,  drinking  deep  to-day  for  love  of  wine, 

To-morrow  half  a  Brahmin,  scorning  life 

As  mere  illusion,  yearning  for  that  True 

Which  has  no  qualities;  another  day 

Finding  the  fount  of  grace  in  sacraments, 

And  purest  reflex  of  the  light  divine 

In  gem-bossed  pyx  and  broidered  chasuble, 

Kesolved  to  wear  no  stockings  and  to  fast 

With  arms  extended,  waiting  ecstasy; 

But  getting  cramps  instead,  and  needing  change, 

A  would-be  pagan  next:  — 

Young  Hamlet  sat 
A  guest  with  five  of  somewhat  riper  age 
At  breakfast  with  Horatio,  a  friend 
With  few  opinions,  but  of  faithful  heart. 
Quick  to  detect  the  fibrous  spreading  roots 
Of  character  that  feed  men's  theories, 
Yet  cloaking  weaknesses  with  charity 
And  ready  in  all  service  save  rebuke. 

With  ebb  of  breakfast  and  the  cider-cnp 
Came  high  debate:  the  others  seated  there 
Were  Osric,  spinner  of  flue  sentences, 
A  delicate  insect  creeping  over  life 
Feeding  on  molecules  of  floral  breath. 
And  weaving  gossamer  to  trap  the  sun; 
Laertes,  ardent,  rash,  and  radical ; 
Discursive  Rosencranz,  grave  Guildenstern, 
And  he  for  whom  the  social  meal  was  made — 
The  polished  priest,  a  tolerant  listener, 
Disposed  to  give  a  hearing  to  the  lost. 
And  breakfast  with  them  ere  they  went  below. 

From  alpine  metapliysic  glaciers  first 

The  talk  sprang  copious ;  the  themes  were  old. 

But  so  is  human  breath,  so  infant  eyes, 


76  A  COLLEGOi  lillKAKl'AST-PARTY. 

The  daily  nurslings  of  creative  light. 
Small  words  held  mighty  meanings:  flatter,  Force, 
Self,  Not-self,  licing,  Seeming,  Space,  and  Time- 
Plebeian  toilers  on  the  duKty  road 
Of  daily  trallJc,  tinned  to  Genii 
And  cloudy  giants  darkening  sun  and  moon. 
Creation  was  reversed  in  Imnian  talk: 
Kone  said,  "Let  Darkness  be,"  but  Diirkness  was; 
And  in  it  weltered  with  Teutonic  ease, 
An  argumentative  Leviathan, 
Blowing  cascades  from  out  his  element, 
The  thunderous  Rosencranz,  till 

"Truce,  1  beg!" 
Said  Osric,  with  nice  accent.     "  I  ablior 
That  battling  of  the  ghosts,  that  strife  of  terms 
For  utmost  lack  of  color,  form,  and  breath, 
That  tasteless  squabbling  called  Philosophy : 
As  if  a  blue-winged  butterfly  afloat 
For  just  three  days  above  the  Italian  fields. 
Instead  of  sipping  at  the  heart  of  flowers. 
Poising  in  sunshine,  fluttering  towards  its  bride, 
Sliould  fast  and  speculate,  considering 
What  were  if  it  were  not?  or  what  now  is 
Instead  of  that  which  seems  to  be  itself? 
Its  deepest  wisdom  surely  were  to  bo 
A  sipping,  marrying,  blue-winged  butterfly; 
Since  utmost  speculation  on  itself 
Were  but  a  three  days'  living  of  worse  sort — 
A  bruising  struggle  all  within  the  bounds 
Of  butterfly  existence." 

"I  protest," 
Burst  in  Laertes,  "against  arguments 
That  start  with  calling  me  a  Imttcrfly, 
A  bubble,  sparlj,  or  other  metaphor 
Which  carries  your  conclusions  as  a  phrase 
In  quibbling  law  will  carry  property. 
Put  a  thin  sucker  for  my  human  lips 
Fed  at  a  mother's  breast,  who  now  needs  food 
That  I  will  earn  for  her ;  put  bubbles  blown 
From  frothy  thinking,  for  the  joy,  the  love. 
The  wants,  the  pity,  and  the  fellowship 
(The  ocean  deeps  I  might  say,  were  I  bent 
On  bandying  metaphors)  that  make  a  man — 
Why,  rhetoric  brings  within  your  easy  reach 
Conclusions  worthy  of — a  butterfly. 
The  universe,  I  hold,  is  no  charade, 
No  acted  pun  unriddled  by  a  word. 
Nor  pain  a  decimal  diminishing 
With  hocus-pocus  of  a  dot  or  nought. 
For  those  vvlio  know  it,  pain  is  solely  pain : 
Not  any  letters  of  the  alphabet 
Wrought  syllogistically  pattern-wise, 
Nor  any  cluster  of  fine  images, 
Nor  any  missing  of  their  figured  dance 
By  blundering  molecules.     Analysis 
May  show  you  the  right  physic  for  the  ill. 
Teaching  the  molecules  to  find  their  dance. 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PARTY.  77 

But  spare  me  your  analogies,  that  hold 
Such  insight  as  the  figure  of  a  crow 
Aud  bar  of  music  put  to  siguify 
A  crowbar." 

Said  the  Priest,  "There  I  agree— 
Would  add  that  sacramoiUal  grace  is  grace 
Which  to  1)6  kiiowu  mus^t  lirst  be  felt,  with  all 
The  strengthening  influxes  that  come  by  prayer. 
I  note  this  passingly— would  not  delay 
The  conversation's  tenor,  save  to  hint 
That  talcing  stand  with  Roseucranz  one  sees 
Final  equivalence  of  all  we  name 
Our  Good  and  111— their  diflerence  meanwhile 
Being  inborn  prejudice  that  plumps  you  dowu 
An  Ego,  brings  a  weight  into  your  scale 
Forcing  a  standard.     That  resistless  weight 
Obstinate,  irremovable  by  thought. 
Persisting  through  disproof,  an  ache,  a  need 
That  spaceless  stays  where  sharp  analysis 
Has  shown  a  plenum  filled  without  it— what 
If  this,  to  use  your  phrase,  were  just  that  Being 
Not  looking  solely,  grasping  from  the  dark. 
Weighing  the  diflerence  you  call  Ego?    This 
Gives  you  persistence,  regulates  the  flux 
With  strict  relation  rooted  in  the  All. 
Who  is  he  of  your  late  philosophers 
Takes  the  true  name  of  Being  to  be  Will  ? 
I— nay,  the  Church  objects  nought,  is  content: 
Reason  has  reached  its  utmost  negative. 
Physic  and  metaphysic  meet  in  the  inane 
And  backward  shrink  to  intense  prejudice, 
Making  their  absolute  aud  homogene 
A  loaded  relative,  a  choice  to  be 
Whatever  is — supposed:  a  What  is  not. 
The  Church  demands  no  more,  has  standing  room 
And  basis  for  her  doctrine:  this  (no  more) — 
That  the  strong  bias  which  we  name  the  Soul, 
Though  fed  and  clad  by  dissoluble  waves, 
Has  antecedent  quality,  and  rules 
By  veto  or  consent  the  strife  of  thought. 
Making  arbitrament  that  we  call  faith." 

Here  was  brief  silence,  till  young  Hamlet  spoke. 

"I  crave  direction.  Father,  how  to  know 

The  sign  of  that  imperative  whose  right 

To  sway  my  act  in  face  of  thronging  doubts 

Were  an  oracular  gem  in  price  beyoud 

Urim  and  Thummim  lost  to  Israel. 

That  bias  of  tlie  soul,  that  conquering  die 

Loaded  with  golden  emphasis  of  Will — 

How  find  it  where  resolve,  once  made,  becomes 

The  rash  exclusion  of  au  opposite 

Which  draws  the  stronger  as  I  turn  aloof." 

"I  think  I  hear  a  bias  in  your  words," 
The  Priest  said  mildly,— "that  strong  natural  bent 
Which  we  call  hunger.    What  more  positive 
Thau  appetite?— of  spirit  or  of  flesh, 


78  A  COLLEGE  BKEAKFAST-PAIITY. 

I  care  not— 'pciisc  of  need'  were  truer  phrase. 

You  Lunger  for  autlioiilativc  rij^ht, 

And  yet  dL-^ceru  no  difference  of  tones, 

jMo  \veij,'lit  of  rod  that  marks  imperial  rule? 

Lacrics  granting;,  1  will  put  your  case 

In  analogic  form :  the  doctors  hold 

Hunger  wiiicli  gives  no  relish— save  caprice 

That  tasting  venison  fancies  mellow  pears— 

A  symi)toni  of  disorder,  and  prescribe 

Strict  discipline.     Were  I  physician  here 

I  would  prescribe  that  exercise  of  soul 

V/liich  lies  in  full  obedience:  you  ask, 

01)edicnce  to  what?    The  answer  lies 

Within  the  word  itself;  for  how  obey 

What  has  no  rule,  asserts  no  absolute  claim? 

Take  iuclination,  taste— why,  that  is  you, 

No  rule  above  you.    Science,  reasoning 

On  nature's  order— they  exist  and  move 

Solely  by  disputatiou,  hold  no  pledge 

Of  final  consequence,  but  push  the  swing 

Where  Epicurus  and  the  Stoic  sit 

In  endless  see-saw.    One  authority. 

And  only  one,  says  simply  this,  Obey : 

Place  yourself  iu  that  current  (test  it  so!) 

Of  spiritual  order  where  at  least 

Lies  promise  of  a  high  communion, 

A  Head  informing  members.  Life  that  breathes 

With  gift  of  forces  over  and  above 

The  plus  of  arithmetic  iutei-change. 

'The  Church  too  has  a  body,'  you  object, 

'Cau  be  dissected,  put  beneath  the  lens 

And  shown  the  merest  continuity 

Of  all  existence  else  beneath  the  sun.' 

I  grant  you ;  but  the  lens  will  not  disprove 

A  presence  which  eludes  it.     Take  your  wit, 

Yotu-  highest  passion,  widest-reaching  thought: 

Show  their  conditions  if  you  will  or  can, 

lUit  though  you  saw  the  final  atom-dance 

Making  each  molecule  that  stands  for  sign 

Of  love  being  present,  where  is  still  your  love? 

How  measure  that,  how  certify  its  weight? 

And  so  I  say,  the  body  of  the  Church 

Carries  a  Presence,  promises  and  gifts 

Never  disproved— whose  argument  is  found 

In  lasting  failure  of  the  search  elsewhere 

For  what  it  holds  to  satisfy  man's  need. 

But  I  grow  lengthy:   my  exc^ise  must  be 

Your  question,  Hamlet,  which  has  iirobed  right  through 

To  the  pith  of  our  belief    And  I  have  robbed 

Myself  of  pleasure  as  a  listener. 

•Tis  noon,  I  see  ;  and  my  appointment  stands 

For  half-past  twelve  with  Voltimand.    Good-bye." 

Brief  parting,  brief  regret— sincere,  but  quenched 
In  fumes  of  best  Havannah,  which  consoles 
For  lack  of  other  certitude.    Then  said. 
Mildly  sarcastic,  quiet  Guildenstern  : 


A  COLLEGE  BBEAKFAST-PAKTY.  79 

"I  marvel  how  the  Father  gave  new  charm 
To  weak  coucUisioiis  :  I  was  half  couviuced 
The  pooi-e!<t  reasoiier  mado  the  liiiest  mau, 
And  held  his  loj^ic  lovelier  for  its  liini)." 

"I  fain  would  hear,"  said  Hamlet,  "how  you  find 

A  strouoer  fooiiuK  than  the  Father  gave. 

How  hase  your  self-resistance  save  on  faith 

In  some  invisible  Order,  higher  Eight 

Thau  changing  impulse.     What  does  Keasou  hid? 

To  take  a  fullest  rationality 

What  offers  best  solution  :  so  the  Church. 

Science,  delecting  hydrogen  aflame 

Outside  our  firmament,  leaves  mystery 

Whole  and  untouched  beyond;  nay,  iu  our  blood 

And  iu  the  potent  atoms  of  each  germ 

The  Secret  lives — envelops,  penetrates 

Whatever  sense  perceives  or  thought  divines. 

Science,  whose  soul  is  explanation,  halts 

With  hostile  fiont  at  mystery.    The  Church 

Takes  mystery  as  her  empire,  brings  its  wealth 

Of  i)ossibility  to  fill  the  void 

'Tvvixt  contradictions— warrants  so  a  faith 

Defying  sense  and  all  its  ruthless  train 

Of  arrogant  'Therefores.'    Science  with  hec  lens 

Dissolves  the  Forms  that  made  the  other  half 

Of  all  our  love,  which  thenceforth  widowed  lives 

To  gaze  with  maniac  stare  at  what  is  not. 

The  Churcli  explains  not,  governs — feeds  resolve 

By  vision  fraught  with  heart-experience 

And  human  yearning." 

"Ay,"  said  Guildenstern, 
With  friendly  nod,  "the  Father,  I  can  see, 
Has  caught  you  up  in  his  air-chariot. 
His  thought  takes  rainbow-bridges,  out  of  reach 
I?y  solid  obstacles,  evaporates 
The  coarse  and  common  into  subtiltics, 
Insists  that  what  is  real  in  the  Church 
Is  something  out  of  evidence,  and  begs 
(Just  iu  parenthesis)  you'll  never  mind 
What  stares  you  in  the  face  and  hruises  yoii. 
Why,  by  his  method  I  could  justify 
Each  superstition  and  each  tyranny 
That  ever  rode  upon  the  back  of  man. 
Pretending  fitness  for  his  sole  defence 
Against  life's  evil.    IIow  can  aught  subsist 
That  holds  no  theory  of  gain  or  good  ? 
Despots  with  terror  in  their  red  right  hand 
"Must  argue  good  to  helpers  and  themselves, 
Must  lot  submission  hold  a  core  of  gain 
To  make  their  slaves  choose  life.    Their  theory. 
Abstracting  inconvenience  of  racks. 
Whip-lashes,  dragonnades  and  all  things  coarse 
Inherent  in  the  fact  or  concrete  mass. 
Presents  the  pure  idea — utmost  good 
Secured  by  Order  only  to  he  found 
In  strict  subordination,  hierarchy 


80  A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PARTY, 

Of  forces  where,  by  nature's  law,  the  strong 

Has  rightful  empire,  rule  of  wciiker  iiroved 

Mere  ilissoliitioii.     What  can  you  ol)joct? 

The  luquisiliou — if  yon  turn  away 

From  narrow  notice  how  the  scent  of  gold 

lias  guided  sense  of  damning  heresy — 

The  Inquisitiou  is  suljlimc,  is  love 

Hindering  the  spread  of  jioison  in  men's  souls  : 

The  flames  are  notliing:  oniy  smaller  pain 

To  hinder  greater,  or  llie  pain  of  one 

To  save  the  many,  such  us  throbs  at  heart 

Of  every  system  born  into  the  world. 

So  of  the  Church  as  high  communion 

Of  Head  with  members,  fount  of  sjiirit  force 

Beyond  the  calculus,  and  carrying  proof 

In  her  sole  i)ower  to  satisfy  man's  need: 

That  seems  ideal  truth  as  clear  as  lines 

That,  necessary  though  invisible,  trace 

The  balance  of  the  planets  aud  the  sun — 

Until  I  find  a  hitch  is  that  last  claim. 

'To  satisfy  man's  need.'    Sir,  that  depends: 

We  settle  first  the  measure  of  man's  need 

Before  we  grant  capacity  to  fill. 

John,  James,  or  Thomas,  you  may  satisfy: 

But  since  you  choose  ideals  I  demand 

Your  Church  shall  satisfy  ideal  man, 

His  utmost  reason  and  his  utmost  love. 

And  say  these  rest  a-hungered — find  no  scheme 

Content  them  both,  but  hold  the  world  accursed, 

A  Calvary  where  Reason  mocks  at  Love, 

Aud  Love  forsaken  sends  out  orphan  cries 

Hopeless  of  answer ;  still  the  soul  remains 

Larger,  diviner  than  your  half-way  Church, 

Which  racks  your  reason  into  false  consent, 

And  soothes  your  Love  with  sops  of  selfishness." 

"There  I  am  with  you,"  cried  Laertes.     "What 

To  me  are  any  dictates,  though  they  came 

With  thunders  from  the  Mount,  if  still  within 

I  see  a  higher  Right,  a  higher  Good 

Compelling  love  and  worship  ?    Though  the  earth 

Held  force  electric  to  discern  and  kill 

Each  thinking  rebel — what  is  martyrdom 

But  death-defying  utterance  of  belief, 

Which  being  mine  remains  my  truth  supreme 

Though  solitary  as  the  throb  of  pain 

Lying  outside  the  pulses  of  the  world? 

Obedience  is  good:  ay,  but  to  what? 

Aud  for  what  ends  ?    For  say  that  I  rebel 

Against  your  rule  as  devilish,  or  as  rule 

Of  thunder-guiding  powers  that  deny 

Man's  highest  benefit :  rebellion  then 

Were  strict  obedience  to  another  rule 

Which  bids  me  flout  your  thunder." 

"Lo  you  nowl" 
Said  Osric,  delicately,  "  how  you  come, 
Laertes  mine,  with  all  your  warring  zeal 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PARTY.  81 

As  Python-slayer  of  the  present  age- 
Cleansing  all  social  swamps  by  darting  rays 
Of  dubious  doctrine,  hot  with  energy 
Of  private  judgment  and  disgust  for  doubt — 
To  state  my  thesis,  which  you  most  abhor 
When  sung  in  Daphuis-notes  l)eneath  the  pines 
To  gentle  rush  of  waters.    Your  belief — 
In  essence  what  is  it  but  simply  Taste? 
I  urge  with  you  exemption  from  all  claims 
That  come  from  other  than  my  projjcr  will, 
An  Ultimate  within  to  balance  yours, 
A  solid  meeting  you,  excluding  you, 
Till  you  sliow  fuller  force  by  entering 
My  spiritual  space  and  crushing  IVIe 
To  a  subordinate  complement  of  You: 
Such  Ultimate  must  stand  alike  for  all. 
Preach  your  crusade,  then:  all  will  join  who  like 
The  hurly-burly  of  aggressive  creeds ; 
Still  your  unpleasant  Ought,  your  itch  to  choose 
What  grates  upon  the  sense,  is  simply  Taste, 
Diflers,  I  think,  from  mine  (permit  the  word, 
Discussion  forces  it)  in  being  bad." 

The  tone  was  too  polite  to  breed  offence, 

Showing  a  tolerance  of  what  was  "  bad  " 

Becoming  courtiers.    Louder  liosencranz 

Took  up  the  ball  with  rougher  movement,  wont 

To  show  contempt  for  doting  reasoners 

Who  hugged  some  reasons  with  a  preference, 

As  warm  Laertes  did :  he  gave  five  puffs 

Intolerantly  scejjtical,  then  said, 

"Your  human  Good,  which  you  would  make  supreme. 

How  do  yon  know  it?    Has  it  shown  its  face 

In  adamantine  type,  with  features  clear. 

As  this  republic,  or  that  monarchy? 

As  federal  grouping,  or  municipal? 

Equality,  or  finely  shaded  lines 

Of  social  difference?  ecstatic  whirl 

And  draught  intense  of  passionate  joy  and  pain, 

Or  sober  self-control  that  starves  its  youth 

And  lives  to  wonder  what  the  world  calls  joy? 

Is  it  in  sympathy  that  shares  men's  pangs 

Or  in  cool  brains  that  can  explain  them  well? 

Is  it  in  labor  or  in  laziness  ? 

lu  training  for  the  tug  of  rivalry 

To  be  admired,  or  in  the  admiring  soul? 

In  risk  or  certitude  ?    In  battling  rage 

And  hardy  challenges  of  Protean  luck. 

Or  in  a  sleek  and  rural  apathy 

Full  fed  with  sameness?    Pray  define  your  Good 

Beyond  rejection  by  majority; 

Next,  how  it  may  subsist  without  the  III 

Which  seems  its  only  outline.     Show  a  world 

Of  pleasure  not  resisted ;  or  a  world 

Of  pressure  equalized,  yet  various 

In  action  formative ;  for  that  will  serve 

As  illustration  of  your  human  Good— 


82  A  COLLEGE  BIIEAKFAST-PAKTY. 

Which  at  its  perfectinp;  (your  goal  of  hope) 
Will  not  be  Rtiaight  extinct,  or  fall  to  sleep 
In  the  deep  bosom  of  the  UuchanKcable. 
What  will  yon  work  for,  then,  and  call  it  good 
With  full  and  certain  vision — good  for  aught 
Save  [lartial  ends  which  happen  to  be  yours? 
How  will  you  get  your  stringency  to  bind 
Tlioiight  or  desire  in  dennnistrated  tracks 
Wliich  arc  but  waves  within  a  balanced  wlmle? 
Is  'Kelative'  the  magic  word  that  turns 
Your  flux  mercurial  of  good  to  gold '! 
Why,  that  analysis  at  which  you  rage 
As  anti-social  force  that  sweeps  you  down 
The  world  in  one  cascade  of  molecules, 
Is  brother  'Relative' — and  grins  at  you 
Like  any  convict  whom  you  thought  to  send 
Outside  society,  till  this  enlarged 
And  meant  New  England  and  Australia  too. 
The  Absolute  is  your  shadow,  and  the  space 
Which  you  say  might  be  real  were  you  milled 
To  curves  pellicular,  the  thinnest  thin, 
Equation  of  no  thickness,  is  still  you." 

"Abstracting  all  that  makes  him  clubbable," 

Horatio  interposed.    But  Rosencrauz, 

Deaf  as  the  angry  turkey-cock  whose  ears 

Are  plugged  by  swollen  tissues  when  he  scolds 

At  men's  pretensions:   "Pooh,  your  'Relative' 

Shuts  you  in,  hopeless,  with  your  progeny 

As  in  a  Ilunger-tower ;  your  social  Good, 

Like  other  deities  by  turn  supreme, 

Is  transient  reflex  of  a  prejudice, 

Anthology  of  causes  and  eff"ects 

To  suit  the  mood  of  fanatics  who  lead 

The  mood  of  triljes  or  nations.    I  admit 

If  you  could  show  a  sword,  nay,  chance  of  sword 

Hanging  conspicuous  to  their  inward  eyes 

With  edge  so  constant  threatening  as  to  sway 

All  greed  and  lust  by  terror;  and  a  law 

Clear-writ  and  proven  as  the  law  supreme 

Which  that  dread  sword  enforces— then  your  Right,  - 

Duty,  or  social  Good,  were  it  once  brought 

To  common  measure  with  the  potent  law. 

Would  dip  the  scale,  would  put  unchanging  niarka 

Of  wisdom  or  of  folly  on  each  deed. 

And  warrant  exhortation.     Until  then. 

Where  is  your  standard  or  criterion  ? 

'What  always,  everywhere,  by  all  men' — why. 

That  were  but  Custom,  and  your  system  needs 

Ideals  never  yet  incorporate, 

The  imminent  doom  of  Custom.     Can  you  find 

Ajipeal  beyond  the  sentience  in  each  man? 

Frighten  the  blind  with  scarecrows?  raise  an  awo 

Of  things  unseen  where  appetite  commands 

Chambers  of  imagery  in  the  soul 

At  all  its  avenues?— You  chant  your  hymns 

To  Evolution,  on  your  altar  lay 


A  COLLEGE  BKEAKFAST-PARTY.  83 

A  sacred  egg  callecl  Progress:   have  you  proved 

A  Best  uuique  where  all  is  relative, 

Aud  where  each  chauge  is  loss  as  well  as  gain? 

The  age  of  healthy  Sauriaus,  well  supplied 

With  lieat  and  prey,  will  balauce  well  enough 

A  human  age  where  maladies  are  strong 

And  pleasures  feeble;    wealth  a  monster  gorged 

Mid  hungry  i)opulations ;  intellect 

Aproned  in  laboratories,  bent  on  proof 

That  this  is  that  and  both  are  good  for  nought 

Save  feeding  error  through  a  weary  life ; 

While  Art  and  Poesy  struggle  like  poor  ghists 

To  hinder  cock-crow  and  the  dreadful  light, 

Lurking  in  darkness  and  the  charnel-house. 

Or  like  two  stalwart  greybeards,  imbecile, 

With  limbs  still  active,  playing  at  belief 

That  hnnt  the  slipper,  foot-ball,  hide-and-seek, 

Are  sweetly  merry,  donning  pinafores 

And  lisping  emulously  in  their  speech. 

0  human  race !    Is  this  then  all  thy  gain  ?— 
Working  at  disproof,  playing  at  belief, 
Debate  ou  causes,  distaste  of  effects, 
Power  to  transmute  all  elements,  and  lack 
Of  any  power  to  sway  the  fatal  skill 

And  make  thy  lot  aught  else  than  rigid  doom? 
The  Saurians  were  better. — Gnildenstern, 
Pass  me  the  taper.    Still  the  human  curse 
Has  mitigation  in  the  best  cigars." 

Then  swift  Laertes,  not  without  a  glare 
Of  leonine  wrath,  "  I  thank  thee  for  that  word : 
That  one  confession,  were  I  Socrates, 
Should  force  you  onward  till  you  ran  your  head 
At  your  own  image — flatly  gave  the  lie 
To  all  your  blasphemy  of  that  human  Good 
Which  bred  and  nourished  you  to  sit  at  ease 
And  learnedly  deny  it.    Say  the  world 
Groans  ever  with  the  pangs  of  doubtful  births: 
Say,  life's  a  poor  donation  at  the  best- 
Wisdom  a  yearning  after  nothingness — 
Nature's  great  vision  and  the  thrill  supreme 
Of  thought-fed  passion  but  a  weary  play — 

1  argue  not  against  you.     Who  can  prove 
Wit  to  be  witty  when  with  deeper  ground 
Dulness  intuitive  declares  wit  dull  ? 

If  life  is  worthless  to  you— why,  it  is. 

Yuu  only  know  how  little  love  you  feel 

To  give  you  fellowship,  how  little  force 

Responsive  to  the  quality  of  things. 

Then  end  your  life,  throw  off  the  unsought  yok& 

If  not — if  you  remain  to  taste  cigars, 

Choose  racy  diction,  perorate  at  large 

With  tacit  scorn  of  meaner  men  who  win 

No  wreath  or  tripos— then  admit  at  least 

A  possible  Better  in  the  seeds  of  earth  ; 

Acknowledge  debt  to  that  laborious  life 

Which,  sifting  evermore  the  mingled  seeds, 


84  A  COLLEGE  BREAKP AST-PARTY. 

Tcstinp;  the  Possible  with  patient  skill, 

And  daring  111  in  i>rcscncc  of  a  Good 

For  futines  to  inliorit,  ni:ulc  yonr  lot 

One  you  would  choose  riilhor  than  end  it,  nay, 

Katlior  than,  say,  some  twenty  million  lots 

or  lellow-liritons  toiling?  all  to  make 

That  nation,  that  community,  whereon 

You  feed  and  thrive  and  talk  (jhilosophy. 

I  am  no  optimist  whose  faith  must  hang 

On  hard  pretence  that  iiain  is  beautiful 

And  a<;ony  explained  for  men  at  case 

hy  virtue's  exercise  in  pitying  it. 

]5ut  this  I  hold:  that  he  who  takes  one  gift 

Made  for  him  by  the  hopeful  work  of  man. 

Who  tastes  sweet  bread,  walks  where  ho  will  unarmed, 

His  shield  and  warrant  the  invisible  law, 

Who  owns  a  hearth  and  household  charities, 

Who  clothes  his  body  and  his  sentient  soul 

With  skill  and  thoughts  of  men,  and  yet  denies 

A  human  Good  worth  toiling  for,  is  cursed 

With  worse  negation  than  the  poet  feigned 

In  Mephistopheles.     The  Devil  spins 

His  wire-drawn  argument  against  all  good 

With  sense  of  brimstone  as  his  private  lot. 

And  never  drew  a  solace  from  the  Earth." 

Laertes  fuming  paused,  and  Guildeustern 

Took  up  with  cooler  skill  the  fusillade  : 

"I  meet  your  deadliest  challenge,  Roseucranz: — 

Where  get,  you  say,  a  binding  law,  a  rule 

Enforced  by  sanction,  au  Ideal  throned 

With  thunder  in  its  hand  ?    I  answer,  there 

Whence  every  faith  and  rule  has  drawn  its  force 

Since  human  consciousness  awaking  owned 

Au  Outward,  whose  unconquerable  sway 

Resisted  first  and  then  subdued  desire 

By  pressure  of  the  dire  Impossible 

Urging  to  possible  ends  the  active  sonl 

And  shaping  so  its  terror  and  its  love. 

Why,  you  have  said  it— threats  and  promises 

Depend  on  each  man's  sentience  for  their  force: 

All  sacred  rules,  imagined  or  revealed, 

Can  have  no  form  or  potency  apart 

From  the  percipient  and  emotive  mind. 

God,  duty,  love,  submission,  fellowship, 

]\Inst  first  be  framed  in  man,  as  music  is, 

Before  they  live  outside  him  as  a  law. 

And  still  they  grow  and  shape  themselves  anew, 

With  fuller  concentration  in  their  life 

Of  inward  and  of  outward  energies 

Blending  to  make  the  last  result  called  Man, 

Which  means,  not  this  or  that  philosopher 

Looking  through  beauty  into  blankness,  not 

The  swindler  who  lias  sent  his  fruitful  lie 

By  the  last  telegram :  it  means  the  tide 

Of  needs  reciprocal,  toil,  trust,  and  love — 

The  surging  multitude  of  human  claims 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PAllTy.  85 

Which  make  '  a  presence  not  to  be  put  by ' 

Above  the  horizon  of  the  general  soul. 

Is  inward  Reason  shrank  to  subtleties, 

And  inward  wisdom  pining  passion-starved?— 

The  outward  Reason  has  the  world  in  store, 

Regenerates  passion  with  the  stress  of  want, 

Regenerates  knowledge  with  discovery. 

Shows  sly  rapacious  Self  a  blunderer, 

Widens  dependence,  knits  the  social  whole 

In  sensible  relation  more  detrued. 

Do  Boards  and  dirty-handed  millionaires 

Govern  the  planetary  system  ?— sway 

The  pressure  of  the  Universe?— decide 

That  man  henceforth  shall  retrogress  to  ape. 

Emptied  of  every  sympathetic  thrill 

The  All  has  wrought  in  him?  dam  np  henceforth 

The  flood  of  human  claims  as  private  force 

To  turn  their  wheels  and  make  a  private  hell 

For  flsh-pond  to  their  mercantile  domain? 

What  are  they  but  a  parasitic  growth 

On  the  vast  real  and  ideal  world 

Of  man  and  nature  blent  in  one  divine? 

Why,  take  your  closing  dirge— say  evil  grows 
And  good  is  dwindling ;  science  mere  decay, 
Mere  dissolution  of  ideal  wholes 

Which  through  the  ages  past,  alone  have  made 

The  earth  and  firmament  of  human  faith  ; 

Say,  the  small  arc  of  Being  we  call  man 

Is  near  its  mergence,  what  seems  growing  life 

Nought  but  a  hurrying  change  towards  lower  types, 

The  ready  raukness  of  degeneracy. 

Well,  they  who  mourn  for  the  world's  dying  good 

May  take  their  common  sorrows  for  a  rockt 

On  it  erect  religion  and  a  church, 

A  worship,  rites,  and  passionate  piety— 

The  worship  of  the  Best  though  crucified 

And  God-forsaken  in  its  dying  pangs  ; 

The  sacramental  rites  of  fellowship 

In  common  woe  ;  visions  that  purify 

Through  admiration  and  despairing  love 

Which  keep  their  spiritual  life  intact 

Beneath  the  murderous  clutches  of  disproof 

And  feed  a  martyr-strength." 

"Religion  high !" 

(Rosencranz  here)  "but  with  communicants 

Few  as  the  cedars  upon  Lebanon — 

A  child  might  count  them.     What  the  world  demands 

Is  faith  coercive  of  the  multitude." 

"Tush,  Guildenstern,  yon  granted  him  too  mnch," 
Burst  in  Laertes;  "I  will  never  grant 
One  inch  of  law  to  feeble  blasphemies 
Which  hold  no  higher  ratio  to  life- 
Full  vigorous  human  life  that  peopled  earth 
And  wrought  and  fought  and  loved  and  bravely  died— 
Than  the  sick  morning  glooms  of  debauchees. 
Old  nations  breed  old  children,  wizened  babes 


86  A  COLLEGE  BREA.KFAST-PA11TY. 

Whose  youth  is  languid  and  incredulous, 

Wcai-y  of  life  without  the  will  to  die  ; 

Their  passions  visionary  iippetites 

Of  bloodless  spectres  wailing  that  llie  world 

For  lack  of  substance  slips  IVoni  out  their  grasp  ; 

Their  thoughts  the  withered  husks  of  all  things  dead, 

Holding  no  force  of  germs  instinct  with  life, 

Which  never  hesitates  but  moves  and  grows. 

Yet  hear  them  boast  in  screams  their  godlike  ill, 

Excess  of  knowing  !     Pie  on  you,  Kosencraiiz  ! 

You  lend  your  brains  and  tine-dividing  tongue 

For  bass-notes  to  this  slirivelled  crudity, 

This  immature  decrepitude  that  strains 

To  fill  our  ears  and  claim  the  prize  of  strength 

For  mere  unmanliness.    Out  on  them  all ! — 

Wits,  puling  minstrels,  and  philosophers, 

Who  living  softly  prate  of  suicide, 

And  suck  the  commonwealth  to  feed  their  case 

While  they  vent  epigrams  and  threnodies. 

Mocking  or  wailing  all  the  eager  work 

Which  makes  that  public  store  whereon  they  Teed. 

Is  wisdom  flattened  sense  and  mere  distaste? 

Why,  any  superstition  warm  with  love, 

Inspired  with  purpose,  wild  with  energy 

That  streams  resistless  through  its  ready  frame. 

Has  more  of  human  truth  within  its  life 

Thau  souls  that  look  through  color  into  nought,— 

Whose  brain,  too  uuinipassioned  for  delight, 

Has  feeble  ticklings  of  a  vanity 

Which  finds  the  universe  beneath  its  mark. 

And  scorning  the  blue  heavens  as  merely  blue 

Can  only  say,  '  What  thc^ii  ?'— pre-eminent 

In  wondrous  want  of  likeness  to  their  kind, 

Founding  that  worship  of  sterility 

Whose  one  supreme  is  vacillating  Will 

Wliich  makes  the  Light,  then  says,  '  'Twere  better  not.' '» 

Here  rash  Laertes  brought  his  Ilandcl-straiu 
As  of  some  angry  Polypheme,  to  pause  ; 
And  Osric,  shocked  at  ardors  out  of  taste, 
Relieved  the  audience  with  a  tenor  voice 
And  delicate  delivery. 

"For  me, 
I  range  myself  in  line  with  Rosencranz 
Against  all  schemes,  religious  or  profane. 
That  flaunt  a  Good  as  pretext  for  a  lash 
To  flog  us  all  who  have  the  better  taste. 
Into  conformity,  requiring  me 
At  peril  of  the  thong  and  sharp  disgrace 
To  care  how  mere  Philistines  pass  their  lives  ; 
Whether  the  English  panper-total  grows 
From  one  to  two  before  the  noughts ;  how  far 
Teuton  will  outbrecd  Roman  ;  if  the  class 
Of  proletaires  will  make  a  federal  band 
To  bind  all  Europe  and  America, 
Throw,  in  their  wrestling,  every  government. 
Snatch  the  world's  purse  and  keep  the  guillotine : 


A  COLLEGE  BIIEAKFAST-PAKTY.  87 

Or  else  (admitting  tiiese  are  casualties) 
Driving  my  soul  with  scientific  hail 
That  shuts  the  landscape  out  with  particles; 
Insisting  that  the  Palingenesis 
Means  telegraphs  and  measure  of  the  rate 
At  which  the  stars  move — nobody  knows  where. 
So  far,  my  Rosencrauz,  we  are  at  one. 
But  not  when  you  blaspheme  the  life  of  Art, 
The  sweet  perennial  youth  of  Poesy, 
Which  asks  no  logic  but  its  sensuous  growth. 
No  right  but  loveliness ;  which  fearless  strolls 
Betwixt  the  burning  mountain  and  the  sen. 
Reckless  of  earthquake  and  the  lava  stream. 
Filling  its  hour  with  beauty.    It  knows  nought 
Of  bitter  strife,  denial,  grim  resolve. 
Sour  resignation,  busy  emphasis, 
Of  fresh  illusions  named  the  ucw-born  True, 
Old  Error's  latest  child  ;  but  as  a  lake 
Images  all  things,  yet  within  its  depths 
Dreams  them  all  lovelier— thrills  with  sound, 
And  makes  a  harp  of  plenteous  liquid  chords— 
So  Art  or  Poesy :  we  its  votaries 
Are  the  Olympians,  fortunately  born 
From  the  elemental  mixture;  'tis  our  lot 
To  pass  more  swiftly  than  the  Deliau  God, 
But  still  the  earth  breaks  into  flowers  for  us, 
And  mortal  sorrows  when  they  reach  our  ears 
Are  dying  falls  to  melody  divine. 
Hatred,  war,  vice,  crime,  sin,  those  human  storms. 
Cyclones,  floods,  what  you  will^outbursts  of  force- 
Feed  Art  with  contrast,  give  the  grander  touch 
To  the  master's  pencil  and  the  poet's  song. 
Serve  as  Vesuvian  fires  or  navies  tossed 
On  yawning  waters,  which  when  viewed  afar 
Deepen  the  calm  sul)lime  of  those  choice  souls 
Who  keep  the  heights  of  poesy  and  turn 
A  fleckless  mirror  to  the  various  world, 
Giving  its  many-named  and  fitful  flux; 
An  imaged,  harmless,  spiritual  life, 
With  pure  selection,  native  to  Art's  frame, 
Of  beauty  only,  save  its  minor  scale 
Of  ill  and  pain  to  give  the  ideal  joy 
A  keener  edge.    This  is  a  mcnigrel  globe ; 
All  finer  being  wrought  from  its  coarse  earth 
Is  but  accepted  privilege:  what  else 
Your  boasted  virtue,  which  proclaims  itself 
A  good  above  the  average  consciousness  ? 
Nature  exists  by  partiality 
(Each  planet's  poise  must  carry  two  extremes 
With  verging  breadths  of  minor  wretchedness): 
We  are  her  favorites  and  accept  our  wings. 
For  your  accusal,  Rosencrauz,  that  Art 
Shares  in  the  dread  and  weakuess  of  the  time, 
I  hold  it  null ;  since  Art  or  Poesy  pure. 
Being  blameless  by  all  standards  save  her  own, 
Takes  no  account  of  modern  or  antique 
lu  morals,  science,  or  philosophy  : 


y8  A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PAETY. 

No  dull  elenchus  makes  a  yoko  for  her, 
Whose  law  and  measure  are  the  sweet  consent 
Of  sensibilities  that  move  apart 
From  rise  or  fall  of  systems,  states  or  creeds — 
Apart  from  what  Philistines  call  man's  weal." 

"Ay,  we  all  know  those  votaries  of  the  Mnso 
Ravished  with  singing  till  they  quite  forgot 
Their  manhood,  sang,  and  gaped,  and  took  no  food. 
Then  died  of  emptiness,  and  for  reward 
Lived  on  as  grasshoppers  " — Laertes  thus  : 
Hut  then  he  checked  himself  as  one  who  feels 
His  muscles  dangerous,  and  Guildeustcru 
Filled  up  the  pause  with  calmer  confidence. 

"You  use  your  wings,  my  Osric,  poise  yourself 
Safely  outside  all  reach  of  argument, 
Then  dogmatize  at  will  (a  method  kuowu 
To  ancient  women  and  i)hilosophers. 
Nay,  to  Philistines  whom  you  most  abhor) ; 
Else,  could  an  arrow  reach  you,  I  should  ask 
Whence  came  taste,  beauty,  sensibilities 
Rejiued  to  preference  infallible  ? 
Doubtless,  ye're  gods— these  odors  ye  inhale, 
A  sacrificial  scent.    But  how,  I  pray. 
Are  odors  made,  if  not  by  gradual  change 
Of  sense  or  substance?    Is  your  Beautiful 
A  seedless,  rootless  flower,  or  has  it  grown 
With  human  growth,  which  means  the  rising  nun\ 
Of  human  struggle,  order,  knowledge  ? — sense 
Trained  to  a  fuller  record,  more  exact- 
To  truer  guidance  of  each  jiassionate  force  ? 
Get  me  your  roseate  flesh  without  the  blood  ; 
Get  fine  aromas  without  structure  wrought 
From  simpler  being  into  manifold: 
Then  and  then  only  flaunt  your  Beautiful 
As  what  can  live  apart  from  thought,  creeds,  states, 
Which  mean  life's  structure.    Osric,  I  beseech — 
The  infallible  should  be  more  catholic — 
Join  in  a  war-dance  with  the  cannibals, 
Hear  Chinese  music,  love  a  face  tattooed. 
Give  adoration  to  a  pointed  skull. 
And  think  the  Iliudu  Siva  looks  divine: 
'Tis  Art,  'tia  Poesy.    Say,  you  object : 
How  came  you  by  that  lofty  dissidence. 
If  not  through  changes  in  the  social  man 
Widening  his  consciousness  from  Uere  and  Now 
To  larger  wholes  beyond  the  reach  of  sense ; 
Controlling  to  a  fuller  harmony 
The  thrill  of  passion  and  the  rule  of  fact ; 
And  paling  false  ideals  in  the  light 
Of  full-rayed  sensibilities  which  blend 
Truth  and  desire  ?    Taste,  beauty,  what  are  they 
But  the  soul's  choice  towards  perfect  bias  wrought 
By  finer  balance  of  a  fuller  growth- 
Sense  brought  to  subtlest  metamorphosis 
Through  love,  thought,  joy— the  general  human  store 
Which  grows  from  all  life's  fuuctious  ?    Aa  the  plant 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PAllTY.  bd 

Holds  its  corolla,  pnrple,  delicate, 

Solely  as  oiitflush  of  that  energy 

Which  moves  transformiugly  iu  root  and  branch." 

GuQdenstern  paused,  and  Hamlet,  qniveriug 
Since  Osric  spoke,  in  transit  imminent 
From  catholic  striving  into  laxity, 
Ventured  his  word.     "Seems  to  me,  Guildenstern, 
Your  argument,  though  shattering  Osric's  point 
That  sensibilities  can  move  apart 
From  social  order,  yet  has  not  annulled 
His  thesis  that  the  life  of  Poesy 
(Admitting  it  must  grow  from  out  the  whole) 
Has  separate  functions,  a  transflgured  realm 
Freed  from  the  rigors  of  the  practical. 
Where  what  is  hidden  from  the  grosser  world- 
Stormed  down  by  roar  of  engines  and  the  shouts 
Of  eager  concourse — rises  beauteous 
A-s  voice  of  water-drops  in  sapphire  caves ; 
A  realm  where  finest  spirits  have  free  sway 
In  exquisite  selection,  uncontrolled 
By  hard  material  necessity 
Of  cause  and  consequence.    For  you  will  grant 
The  Ideal  has  discoveries  which  ask 
No  test,  uo  faith,  save  that  we  joy  in  them: 
A  new-found  continent,  with  spreading  lands 
Where  pleasure  charters  all,  where  virtue,  rank, 
Use,  right,  and  truth  have  but  one  name.  Delight, 
Thus  Art's  creations,  when  etherealized 
To  least  admixture  of  the  grosser  fact 
Pelight  may  stamp  as  highest." 

"Possible!" 
Said  Gnildenstern,  with  touch  of  weariness, 
"Bat  then  we  might  dispute  of  what  is  gross. 
What  high,  what  low." 

"Nay,"  said  Laertes,  "  ai^k 
The  mightiest  makers  who  have  reigned,  still  reigu 
Within  the  ideal  realm.    See  if  their  thought 
Be  drained  of  practice  and  the  thick  warm  blood 
Of  hearts  that  beat  in  action  various 
Through  the  wide  drama  of  the  struggling  world. 
Good-bye,  Horatio." 

Each  now  said  "Good-bye." 
Such  breakfast,  such  beginning  of  the  day 
Is  more  than  half  the  whole.    The  sun  was  hot 
On  southward  branches  of  the  meadow  elms, 
The  shadows  slowly  farther  crept  and  veered 
Iiike  changing  memories,  and  Hamlet  strolled 
Alone  and  dubious  on  the  impurpled  path 
Between  the  waving  grasses  of  new  June 
Close  by  the  stream  where  well-compacted  boats 
Were  moored  or  moving  with  a  lazy  creak 
To  the  soft  dip  of  oars.    All  sounds  were  light 
As  tiny  silver  bells  upon  the  robes 
Of  hovering  silence.    Birds  made  twitterings 
That  seemed  but  Silence  self  o'crfiill  of  love. 
'Twas  iuvitatiou  all  to  sweet  repose ; 

19  i^ 


90  A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-I'AUTY. 

Aud  Ilamlct,  drowsy  with  the  mluglcd  draughts 

Of  cider  and  couflictiug  sentiment?, 

Chose  a  green  couch  and  watched  witli  half-closed  eyes 

The  meadow-road,  the  stream  and  dreamy  lights, 

Until  they  merged  themselves  in  sequence  strange 

M'ith  undulating  ether,  time,  the  soul. 

The  will  supreme,  the  individual  claim, 

The  social  Ought,  the  lyrist's  liberty, 

Democritus,  Pythagoras,  iu  talk 

With  Anselni,  Darwin,  Comte,  aud  Schopenhauer, 

The  poets  rising  slow  from  out  their  tombs 

Summoned  as  arbiters — that  border-world 

Of  dozing,  ere  the  sense  is  fully  locked. 

And  theu  he  dreamed  a  dream  so  luminous 
He  woke  (he  says)  convinced  ;  but  what  it  taught 
Withholds  as  yet.    Perhaps  those  graver  shades 
Admonished  him  that  visions  told  in  haste 
Part  with  their  virtues  to  the  squandering  lips 
And  leave  the  soul  iu  wider  emptiness. 

April,  18T4 


1866. 


TWO  LOVERS. 

Two  lovers  by  a  moss-grown  spring : 
They  leaned  soft  cheeks  together  there. 
Mingled  the  dark  and  sunny  hair, 
And  heard  the  wooing  thrushes  sing. 
O  budding  time ! 
O  love's  blest  prime  1 

Two  wedded  from  the  portal  slept: 
The  bells  made  happy  caroUings, 
The  air  was  soft  as  fanning  wings, 
White  petals  ou  the  pathway  slept. 

O  puie-eyed  bride ! 
O  tender  pride ! 

Two  faces  o'er  a  cradle  bent: 
Two  hands  above  the  head  were  locked ; 
These  pressed  each  other  while  they  rocked, 
Those  watched  a  life  that  love  had  sent. 
O  solemn  honr ! 
O  hidden  power! 

Two  parents  by  tlu;  evening  tire : 
The  red  light  fell  about  their  knees 
On  heads  that  rose  by  slow  degrees 
Like  buds  upon  the  lily  spire. 

O  patieut  life  I 
O  tender  strife! 

The  two  still  sat  together  there, 
The  red  light  shone  about  their  knees  ; 
But  all  the  heads  by  slow  degrees 
Had  gone  and  left  that  lonely  pair. 
O  voyage  fast ! 
O  vanished  past! 

The  red  light  shone  upwn  the  floor 
And  made  the  space  between  them  wide; 
They  drew  their  chairs  up  side  by  side, 
Their  pale  cheeks  joined,  and  said,  "Once  more!" 
O  memories ! 
O  past  that  is! 


SELF  AND  LIFE. 

Self. 

CuANfiEFUL  comrade,  Life  of  miue, 

Before  we  two  must  part, 
I  will  tell  thee,  thon  ehalt  8ay, 

What  thou  hast  beeu  and  art. 
Ere  I  lose  my  hold  of  thee 
Justify  thyself  to  me. 

LlFB. 

I  was  thy  Avarmth  npon  thy  mother's  knee 

When  light  and  love  within  her  eyes  were  one: 
We  laughed  together  by  the  laurel-tree. 
Culling  warm  daisies 'neath  the  sloi)ing  sun; 
We  heard  the  chickens'  lazy  croon. 

Where  the  trellised  woodbines  grew, 
And  all  the  summer  afternoon 
Mystic  gladness  o'er  thee  threw. 
Was  it  persou?    Was  it  thing? 
Was  it  touch  or  whispering? 
It  was  bliss  and  it  was  I: 
Bliss  was  what  thou  knew'st  me  by. 

Sklf. 

Soon  I  knew  thee  more  by  Fear 

And  sense  of  what  was  not, 
Haunting  all  I  held  most  dear; 

I  had  a  double  lot: 
Ardor,  cheated  with  alloy, 
Wept  the  more  for  dreams  of  joj'. 

LlFU. 

Remember  how  thy  ardor's  magic  sense 

Made  poor  things  rich  to  thee  and  small  things  great 
How  hearth  and  garden,  field  and  bushy  fence. 
Were  thy  own  eager  love  incorporate ; 
And  how  the  solemn,  splendid  Past 

O'er  thy  early  widened  earth 
Made  grandeur,  as  on  sunset  cast 
Dark  elms  near  take  mighty  girth. 
Hands  and  feet  were  tiny  still 
When  we  knew  the  historic  thrill, 
Breathed  deep  breath  in  heroes  dead. 
Tasted  the  immortals'  bread. 


SELF  AND  LIFE.  93 

Self. 

Seeing  what  I  might  have  been 

Reproved  the  thiiiij  I  was, 
Smoke  oil  heaven's  clearest  sheen, 

The  speck  wiiliin  tlie  rose. 
By  revered  ones'  frailties  stung 
Reverence  was  with  anguish  wrung. 

Lire. 

But  all  thy  anguish  and  thy  discontent 

Was  growth  of  mine,  the  elemental  strife 
Towards  feeling  manifold  with  vision  blent 
To  wider  thought:   I  was  no  vulgar  life 
That,  like  the  water-mirrored  ape. 

Not  discerns  the  thing  it  sees. 
Nor  knows  its  own  iu  others'  shape. 
Railing,  scorning,  at  its  ease. 
Half  man's  truth  must  hidden  lie 
If  unlit  by  Sorrow's  eye. 
I  by  Sorrow  wrought  iu  thee 
Willing  pain  of  ministry. 

Self. 

Slowly  was  the  lesson  taught 

Through  passion,  error,  care  ; 
Insight  was  with  loathing  fraught  ■ 

And  effort  with  despair. 
Written  on  the  wall  I  saw 
"  Bow '."  I  knew,  not  loved,  the  law. 

Life. 

But  then  I  brought  a  love  that  wrote  within 

The  law  of  gratitude,  and  made  thy  heart 
Beat  to  the  lieavcnly  tune  of  scraphin 
Whose  only  joy  in  having  is,  to  impart: 
Till  thou,  poor  Self— despite  thy  ire. 

Wrestling  'gainst  my  mingled  share. 
Thy  faults,  hard  falls,  and  vain  desire 
Still  to  be  what  others  were 
Filled,  o'erflowed  with  tenderness 
Seeming  more  as  thou  wert  less, 
Knew  me  through  that  anguish  past 
As  a  fellowship  more  vast. 

Self. 

Yea,  I  embrace  thee,  changeful  Life  I 

Far-sent,  uuchosen  mate ! 
Self  and  thou,  no  more  at  strife, 

Shall  wed  in  hallowed  state. 
Willing  spousals  now  shall  prove 
Life  is  justified  by  love. 


THE  DEATH  OF  MOSES. 

MoBKS,  who  spake  with  God  as  with  liis  fiicud, 
And  ruled  his  people  with  tlie  twofold  power 
Of  wisdom  that  can  dare  and  still  be  meek, 
Was  writing  his  last  word,  the  sacred  name 
Unutterable  of  that  Eternal  Will 
Which  was  arid  is  and  evermore  shall  be. 
Yot  was  his  task  not  finished,  for  the  flock 
Needed  its  shepherd,  and  the  life-taught  sago 
Leaves  no  successor;  but  to  chosen  men. 
Tlie  rescuers  and  guides  of  Israel, 
A  death  was  given  called  the  Death  of  Grace, 
Which  freed  them  from  the  burden  of  the  flesh 
But  left  them  rulers  of  the  multitude 
And  loved  comiiauions  of  the  lonely.    This 
Was  God's  last  gift  to  Moses,  this  the  hour 
When  soul  must  part  from  self  and  be  but  soiiL 

God  spake  to  Gabriel,  the  messenger 

Of  mildest  death  that  draws  the  parting  life 

Gently,  as  when  a  little  rosy  child 

Lifts  up  its  lips  from  off  the  bowl  of  milk 

And  so  draws  forth  a  curl  that  dipped  its  gold 

In  the  soft  white— thus  Gabriel  draws  the  souL 

"  Go,  briug  the  soul  of  Moses  unto  me  1" 

And  the  awe-strickeu  angel  answered,  "  Lord, 

How  shall  I  dare  to  take  his  life  who  lives 

Sole  of  his  kind,  not  to  be  likened  once 

In  all  the  generations  of  the  earth  ?" 

Then  God  called  Michael,  hira  of  pensive  brow 
Snow-vest  and  flaming  sword,  who  knows  and  acts: 
"  Go,  bring  the  spirit  of  Moses  unto  me !" 
But  Michael  with  such  grief  as  angels  feel. 
Loving  the  mortals  whom  they  succor,  pled: 
"  Almighty,  spare  me ;  it  was  I  who  taught 
Thy  servant  Moses ;  he  is  part  of  me 
As  I  of  thy  deep  secrets,  knowing  them." 

Then  God  called  ZaniaCl,  the  terrible. 
The  angel  of  fierce  death,  of  agony 
That  comes  in  battle  and  in  pestilence 
Kemorseless,  sudden  or  with  lingering  throes. 
And  ZamaiJl,  his  raiment  and  broad  wings 
Blood-tinctured,  the  dark  lustre  of  his  eyes 
Shrouding  the  red,  fell  like  the  gathering  night 
Before  the  prophet.     But  that  radiance 


THE  DEATH  OF  MOSES.  95 

Wou  from  the  heavenly  Presence  In  the  mount 

Gleamed  on  the  prophet's  brow  and  dazzling  pierced 

Its  conscious  opposiie :  the  angel  turned 

His  murky  gaze  aloof  and  iuly  said  : 

"An  angel  this,  deathless  to  angel's  stroke." 

Bnt  Moses  felt  the  subtly  uearing  dark: — 

"Who  art  thou?  and  what  wilt  thou?"    ZamaC-l  then: 

"  I  am  God's  reaper ;   through  the  fields  of  life 

I  gather  ripened  and  unripened  souls 

Both  willing  and  unwilling.     And  I  come 

Now  to  reap  thee."    But  Jloses  cried, 

Firm  as  a  seer  who  waits  the  trusted  sign : 

"Reap  thou  the  fruitless  plant  and  common  herb — 

Not  him  who  from  the  womb  was  sanctified 

To  teach  the  law  of  purity  and  love." 

And  ZamaiJl  baffled  from  his  errand  fled. 

But  Closes,  pausing,  in  the  air  serene 
Heard  now  that  mystic  whisper,  far  yet  near, 
The  all-penetrating  Voice,  that  said  to  him, 
"Moses,  the  hour  is  come  and  thon  must  die." 
"  Lord,  I  obey ;  but  thou  rememberest 
How  thon,  lueflable,  didst  take  me  once 
Within  thy  orb  of  light  untouched  by  death." 
Then  the  Voice  answered,  "Be  no  more  afraid: 
With  me  shall  be  thy  death  and  burial." 
So  Moses  waited,  ready  now  to  die. 

And  the  Lord  came,  invisible  as  a  thought, 

Three  angels  gleaming  on  his  secret  tr.ick, 

Prince  Michael,  ZamaiJi,  Gabriel,  charged  to  guard 

The  soul-forsaken  body  as  it  fell 

And  bear  it  to  the  hidden  sepulchre 

Denied  forever  to  the  search  of  man. 

And  the  Voice  said  to  Moses:  "Close  thine  eyes." 

He  closed  them.     "Lay  thine  hand  upon  thine  heart 

And  diaw  thy  feet  together."    He  obeyed. 

And  the  Lord  said,  "O  spirit,  child  of  mine  ! 

A  hundred  years  and  twenty  thou  hast  dwelt 

Within  this  tabernacle  wrought  of  clay. 

This  is  the  end:  come  forth  and  flee  to  heaven." 

But  the  grieved  soul  with  plaintive  pleading  cried, 
"I  love  this  body  with  a  clinging  love: 
The  courage  fails  me,  Lord,  to  part  from  it." 

"  O  child,  come  forth !  for  thou  shalt  dwell  with  me 
About  the  immortal  throne  where  seraphs  joy 
In  growing  vision  and  in  growing  love." 

Yet  hesitating,  fluttering,  like  the  bird 

With  young  wing  weak  and  dubious,  the  soul 

Stayed.     But  behold  !  upon  the  death-dewed  lips 

A  kiss  descended,  pure,  unspeakable — 

The  bodiless  Love  without  embracing  Love 

Th.at  lingered  in  the  body,  drew  it  forth 

Willi  heavenly  strength  and  carried  it  to  heaven. 


00  "SWEET  EVENINGS  COME  AND  00,  L0^T5." 

But  now  beneath  the  sky  the  watchers  all, 

Angels  that  keep  the  homes  of  Israel 

Or  on  high  piiri)ose  wander  o'er  the  world 

Leading  the  Gentiles,  felt  a  dark  eclipse : 

The  greatest  rnler  among  men  was  gone. 

And  from  the  westward  sea  was  heard  a  wail, 

A  dirge  as  from  the  isles  of  Javanim, 

Crying,  "Who  now  is  left  upon  the  earth 

Like  him  to  teach  the  right  and  smite  the  wrong?" 

And  from  the  East,  far  o'er  the  Syrian  waste. 

Came  slowlier,  sadlier,  the  answering  dirge: 

•'No  prophet  like  liim  lives  or  shall  arise 

In  Israel  or  the  world  for  evermore." 

Bnt  Israel  waited,  looking  toward  the  mount, 
Till  with  the  deepening  eve  the  elders  came 
Saying,  "Uis  burial  is  hid  with  God. 
We  stood  far  off  and  saw  the  angels  lift 
His  corpse  aloft  until  they  seemed  a  star 
That  burnt  itself  away  withiji  the  sky." 

The  people  answered  with  mute  orphaned  gaze 
Looking  for  what  had  vanished  evermore. 
Tlieu  through  the  gloom  without  them  and  within 
The  spirit's  shaping  light,  mysterious  speech. 
Invisible  Will  wrought  clear  iu  sculptured  sound, 
The  thought-begotten  daughter  of  the  voice, 
Thrilled  on  their  listening  sense:  "He  has  no  tomb. 
He  dwells  not  with  you  dead,  but  lives  as  Law." 


"SWEET  EVENINGS  COME  AND  GO,  LOVE^^ 

"  La  noche  buena  se  viene. 
La  noche  buena  ee  va, 
y  nosotrOB  nos  iremos 
Y  no  vt)lvcremo9  mas," — Old  ViUancico. 

SwKET  evenings  come  and  go,  love, 

They  came  and  went  of  yore: 
This  evening  of  our  life,  love. 

Shall  go  and  come  uo  more. 

When  we  have  passed  away,  love. 
All  things  will  keep  their  name; 

Bnt  yet  no  life  on  earth,  love. 
With  ours  will  be  the  same. 

The  daisies  will  be  there,  love, 
The  stars  in  heaven  will  shine: 

I  shall  not  feel  thy  wish,  love. 
Nor  thou  my  hand  iu  thine. 

A  better  time  will  come,  love, 

And  better  souls  be  born : 
I  would  not  be  the  best,  love. 

To  leave  thee  now  forlorn. 


ABION. 

(Hbeod.  I.  24.) 

Arion,  whose  melodic  soul 
Taught  the  dithyramb  to  roll 

Like  forest  fires,  and  sing 

Olympian  sufl'eriug, 

Had  carried  his  diviuer  lore 
From  Ooriuth  to  the  sister  shoie 

Where  Greece  could  largelier  be, 

Brauching  o'er  Italy. 

Then  weighted  with  his  glorious  name 
And  bags  of  gold,  aboard  he  came 
'Mid  harsh  seafaring  meu 
To  Coriuth  bound  again. 

The  sailors  eyed  the  bags  and  thought: 
♦'The  gold  is  good,  the  man  is  nought^ 
And  who  shall  track  the  wave 
That  opens  for  his  grave?" 

With  brawny  arms  and  cruel  eyes 
They  press  around  him  where  he  lies 
In  sleep  beside  his  lyre. 
Hearing  the  Muses  quire. 

He  waked  and  saw  this  wolf-faced  Death 
Breaking  the  dream  that  filled  his  breath 

With  iuspiration  strong 

Of  yet  unchauted  song. 

"Take,  take  my  gold  and  let  me  live!" 
He  prayed,  as  kings  do  when  they  give 
Their  all  with  royal  will, 
Holding  born  kingship  still. 

To  rob  the  living  they  refuse, 

One  death  or  other  he  must  choose. 

Either  the  watery  pall 

Or  wounds  and  burial. 

"  My  solemn  robe  then  let  me  don, 

Give  me  high  space  to  stand  upon, 

That  dying  I  may  pour 

A  song  unsung  before." 

19*  E* 


98  ARION. 


It  pleased  them  well  to  grant  this  prayer, 
To  hear  for  nought  how  it  inight  fare 

With  men  who  paid  their  gold 

For  what  a  poet  sold. 

In  flowing  stole,  bis  eyes  aglow 
With  inward  fire,  he  neared  the  prow 

.And  took  his  god-like  stand, 

The  cilhara  in  hand. 

The  wolfish  men  all  shrank  aloof, 
And  feared  this  singer  might  be  proof 

Against  their  murderous  power. 

After  his  lyric  hour. 

But  ho,  in  liberty  of  song, 

Fearless  of  death  or  other  wrong. 
With  full  spondaic  toll 
Poured  forth  his  mighty  sonl: 

Toured  forth  the  strain  his  dream  had  taughtj 
A  nome  with  lofty  passion  fraught 

Such  as  makes  battles  won 

On  fields  of  Marathon. 

The  last  long  vowels  trembled  then 
As  awe  within  those  woltish  men : 

They  said,  with  mutual  stare. 

Some  god  was  present  there. 

But  lo !  Arion  leaped  on  high 
Heady,  his  descant  done,  to  die; 

Not  asking,  "Is  it  well?" 

Lilce  a  pierced  eagle  fell. 


1S73. 


«6»  31  AY  I  JOIN  THE  CHOIR  INVISIBLE:' 

Longum  ilUid  tcmpus,  quam  vtm  frOy  ina/jh  vie  movctj  quam  hoc  exi^uuin. — Cicero,  ad  Att.  xii.  IS. 

O  MAY  I  join  the  choir  invisible 

Of  those  immortal  dead  who  live  again 

In  minds  made  better  by  their  presence:   live 

In  pulses  stirred  to  generosity, 

In  deeds  of  daring  rectitude,  in  scorn 

For  miserable  aims  that  end  with  self, 

In  thoughts  sublime  that  pierce  the  niglit  like  starp, 

And  with  their  mild  persistence  urge  man's  search 

To  vaster  issues. 

So  to  live  is  heaven : 
To  malie  undying  music  in  the  world, 
Breathing  as  beauteous  order  that  controls 
Witli  growing  sway  the  growing  life  of  man. 
So  we  inherit  that  sweet  purity 
For  which  we  struggled,  failed,  and  agonized 
With  widening  retrospect  that  bred  despair. 
Kebellious  flesh  that  would  not  be  subdued, 
A  vicious  parent  shaming  still  its  child 
Poor  anxious  penitence,  is  quick  dissolved ; 
Its  discords,  quenched  by  meeting  harmonies, 
Die  in  the  large  and  charitable  air. 
And  all  our  rarer,  better,  truer  self. 
That  sobbed  religiously  in  yearning  song. 
That  watched  to  ease  the  burden  of  the  world,  •» 

Laboriously  tracing  what  must  be. 
And  what  may  yet  be  better — saw  within 
A  worthier  image  for  the  sanctuary. 
And  shaped  it  forth  before  the  multitude 
Divinely  human,  raising  worship  so 
To  higher  reverence  more  mixed  with  love — 
That  better  self  shall  live  till  hnnian  Time 
Shall  fold  its  eyelids,  and  the  human  sky 
Be  gathered  like  a  scroll  within  the  tomb 
Unread  forever. 

This  is  life  to  come, 
Which  martyred  men  have  made  more  glorious 
For  us -who  strive  to  follow.     May  I  reach 
That  purest  heaven,  be  to  other  souls 
The  cup  of  strength  in  some  great  agony. 
Enkindle  generous  ardor,  feed  pure  love. 
Beget  the  smiles  that  have  no  cruelty — 
Be  the  sweet  presence  of  a  good  diffused, 
And  in  diflfusion  ever  more  intense. 
So  shall  I  join  the  choir  invisible 
Whose  music  is  the  gladness  of  the  world. 

3C7. 


THE   SPANISH   GYPSY. 

[TTtis  tttork  ipa3  originallij  written  in  the  winier  of  1S64-65;  after  a  visit  to  Spain  in  1867  it  tvaa  rewriUen 
and  am/'lijied.  The  reader  conversant  with  Spanish  jutetrt/  will  see  that  in  two  of  the  lyrics  an  attempt  has 
hsen  made  to  imitate  the  trochaic  measure  and  assonance  of  tlie  Spanish  ballad. — Mjiy,  186y.] 

BOOK  I. 

'Tis  the  warm  South,  where  Europe  spreads  her  laucls 
Like  fretted  leaflets,  breathing  on  the  deep: 
Broad-breasted  Spain,  leaning  with  equal  love 
On  the  Mid  Sea  that  moans  with  memories, 
And  on  the  untravclled  Ocean's  restless  tides. 
This  river,  shadowed  by  the  battlements 
And  gleaming  silvery  towards  the  northern  sky, 
Feeds  tlie  famed  stream  that  waters  Andaliis 
And  loiters,  amorous  of  the  fragrant  air. 
By  Cordova  and  Seville  to  the  bay 
Fronting  Algarva  and  the  wandering  flood 
Of  Guadiana.    This  deep  moiuitaiu  gorge 
Slopes  widening  on  the  olive-plumed  plains 
Of  fair  Granada:  one  far-stretching  arm 
Points  to  Elvira,  one  to  eastward  heights 
Of  Alpujarras  where  the  uew-bathed  Day 
With  oriflamme  uplifted  o'er  the  peaks 
Saddens  the  breasts  of  northward-looking  snows 
That  loved  the  night,  and  soared  with  soaring  stars? 
Plashing  the  signals  of  his  Hearing  swifmess 
From  Almeria's  jiurple-shadowed  bay 
On  to  the  far-olT  rocks  that  gaze  and  glow- 
On  to  Alhainbra,  strong  and  ruddy  heart 
Of  glorious  Morisma,  gasping  now, 
A  maim6d  giant  in  his  agony. 
This  town  that  dips  its  feet  within  the  stream, 
And  seems  to  sit  a  tower-crowned  Cybele, 
Spreading  her  ample  robe  adown  the  rocks. 
Is  rich  Bedmar:  'twas  Moorish  long  ago, 
But  now  the  Cross  is  sparkling  on  the  Mosque, 
And  bells  make  Catholic  the  trembling  air. 
The  fortress  gleams  in  Spanish  sunshine  now 
('Tis  south  a  mile  before  the  rays  are  Moorish)— 
Hereditary  jewel,  agraffe  bright 
On  all  the  many-titled  privilege 
Of  young  Duke  Silva.    No  Castilian  knight 
That  serves  Queen  Isabel  has  higher  charge ; 
For  near  this  frontier  sits  the  Moorish  king, 
Not  Boabdil  the  waverer,  who  usurps 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

A  throue  he  trembles  in,  and  fawning  licks 
The  feet  of  conquerors,  but  that  fierce  lion 
Grisly  El  Zagal,  who  has  made  his  lair 
lu  Guadix'  fort,  and  rushing  thence  with  strength, 
Half  his  own  fierceness,  half  the  untainted  heart 
Of  mountain  bands  that  fight  for  holiday, 
Wastes  the  fair  lands  that  lie  by  AlcaUi, 
Wreathing  his  horse's  neck  with  Christian  heads. 

To  keep  the  Christian  frontier— such  high  trust 

Is  young  Duke  Silva's;  and  the  time  is  great. 

(What  times  arc  little?    To  the  sentinel 

That  hour  is  regal  when  he  mounts  on  guard.) 

The  fifteenth  century  since  the  Man  Divine 

Taught  and  was  hated  in  Capernaum 

Is  near  its  end— is  falling  as  a  husk 

Away  from  all  the  fruit  its  years  have  rijied. 

The  Moslem  faith,  now  flickering  like  a  torch 

In  a  night  struggle  on  this  shore  of  Spain, 

Glares,  a  broad  column  of  advancing  flame, 

Along  the  Danube  and  the  Illyrian  shore 

Far  into  Italy,  where  eager  monks, 

Who  watch  in  dreams  and  dream  the  while  they  watch. 

See  Christ  grow  paler  in  the  baleful  light, 

Crying  again  the  cry  of  the  forsaken. 

But  faith,  the  .stronger  for  extremity, 

Becomes  prophetic,  hears  the  far-oflT  tread 

Of  western  chivalry,  sees  downward  sweep 

The  archangel  Michael  with  the  gleaming  sword, 

And  listens  for  the  shriek  of  hurrying  fiends 

Chased  from  their  revels  in  God's  sanctuary. 

So  trusts  the  monk,  and  lifts  appealing  eyes 

To  the  high  dome,  the  Church's  firmament. 

Where  the  blue  light-pierced  curtain,  rolled  away, 

Eeveals  the  throne  and  Him  who  sits  thereon. 

So  trust  the  men  whose  best  hope  for  the  world 

Is  ever  that  the  world  is  near  its  end: 

Impatient  of  the  stars  that  keep  their  course 

And  make  no  pathway  for  the  coming  Judge. 

But  other  futures  stir  the  world's  great  heart. 
The  West  now  enters  on  the  heritage 
Won  from  the  tombs  of  mighty  ancestors, 
The  seeds,  the  gold,  the  gems,  the  silent  harps 
That  lay  deep  buried  with  the  memories 
Of  old  renown. 

No  more,  as  once  iu  sunny  Avignon, 
The  poet-scholar  spreads  the  Homeric  page. 
And  gazes  sadly,  like  the  deaf  at  song ; 
For  now  the  old  epic  voices  ring  again 
And  vibrate  with  the  beat  and  melody 
Stirred  by  the  warmth  of  old  Ionian  days. 
The  martyred  sage,  the  Attic  orator. 
Immortally  incarnate,  like  the  gods, 
In  spiritual  bodies,  wingi^d  words 
Holding  a  universe  impalpable, 
Find  a  new  audience     For  evermore, 


101 


102  THE  SPANISH  GYI'SY. 

With  grander  resurrection  than  was  feigned 

Of  Attihi's  fierce  Iliins,  the  soul  of  Greece 

Conquers  the  bulk  of  Persia.     The  maimed  form 

Of  cahnly-joyous  beauty,  niarble-1  imbed, 

Yet  breathing  with  the  thouglit  that  shaped  its  lipn, 

Looks  mild  reproacli  from  out  its  opened  grave 

At  creeds  of  terror;  and  the  vine-wreathed  god 

Frouts  tlie  pierced  Image  with  the  crown  of  thorns. 

The  soul  of  man  is  widening  towards  the  past; 

No  longer  hanging  at  the  breast  of  life 

Feeding  in  blindness  to  his  parentage — 

Quenching  all  wonder  with  Omnipotence, 

I'raising  a  name  with  indolent  piety — 

lie  spells  the  record  of  his  long  descent, 

More  largely  conscious  of  the  life  that  was. 

And  from  tlie  height  that  shows  where  morning  shone 

On  far-off  summits  pale  and  gloomy  now. 

The  horizon  widens  round  liim,  and  the  west 

Looks  vast  with  uutracked  waves  whereon  his  gaze 

Follows  the  flight  of  the  swift-vanished  bird 

That  like  the  sunken  suu  is  mirrored  still 

Upon  the  yearning  soul  within  the  eye. 

And  so  in  Cordova  through  patient  nights 

Columbus  watches,  or  he  sails  in  dreams 

Between  the  setting  stars  and  finds  new  day ; 

Then  wakes  again  to  the  old  weary  days. 

Girds  on  the  cord  and  frock  of  pale  Saint  Francis, 

And  like  him  zealous  pleads  with  foolish  men. 

"I  ask  but  fin-  a  million  maravedis: 

Give  me  three  caravels  to  find  a  world, 

New  shores,  new  I'ealms,  new  soldiers  for  the  Cross. 

Son  cosas  grandes  !^'    Thus  he  pleads  in  vain; 

Yet  faints  not  utterly,  but  pleads  anew, 

Thinking,  "God  means  it,  and  has  cliosen  me." 

For  this  man  is  the  pulse  of  all  mankind 

Feeding  an  embryo  future,  offspring  strange 

Of  the  fond  Present,  that  with  mother-prayers 

And  mother-fancies  looks  for  championship 

Of  all  her  loved  beliefs  and  old-world  ways 

From  that  young  Time  she  bears  within  her  womb. 

The  sacred  places  shall  be  purged  again. 

The  Turk  converted,  and  the  lloly  Church, 

Like  the  mild  Virgin  with  the  outspread  robe, 

Shall  fold  all  tongues  and  nations  lovingly. 

But  since  God  works  by  armies,  who  shall  be 

The  modern  Cyrus?    Is  it  France  most  Christian, 

Who  with  his  lilies  and  brocaded  knights, 

French  oaths,  French  vices,  and  the  newest  style 

Of  out-puffed  sleeve,  shall  pass  from  west  to  east, 

A  winnowing  fan  to  purify  the  seed 

For  fair  millennial  harvests  soon  to  come? 

Or  is  not  Spain  the  land  of  chosen  warriors?— 

Crusaders  consecrated  from  the  womb. 

Carrying  the  sword-cross  stamped  upon  their  souls 

By  the  long  yearnings  of  a  nation's  life, 

Through  all  the  seven  patient  centuries 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

Since  first  Pelayo  and  his  resolute  band 

Trusted  the  God  withiu  their  Gothic  hearts 

At  Covadunga,  aud  defied  Mahound ; 

Bes^inuing  so  the  Uoly  War  of  Spain 

That  now  is  panting  with  the  eagerness 

Of  labor  near  its  end.    The  silver  cross 

Glitters  o'er  Malaga  aud  streams  dread  light 

Ou  Moslem  galleys,  turning  all  their  stores 

From  threats  to  gifts.    What  Spanish  knight  is  he 

Who.'liviiig  now,  holds  it  not  shame  to  live 

Apart  from  that  hereditary  battle 

Which  needs  his  sword  ?    Castiliau  gentlemen 

Choose  not  their  task— they  choose  to  do  it  well. 

The  time  is  great,  and  greater  no  man's  trust 
Than  his  who  keeps  the  fortress  for  his  king. 
Wearing  great  honors  as  some  delicate  robe 
Brocaded  o'er  with  names  'twere  sin  to  tarnish. 
Born  de  la  Cerda,  Calatravan  knight. 
Count  of  Segura,  fourth  Duke  of  Bedmi'ir, 
Offshoot  from  that  high  stock  of  old  Castile 
Whose  topmost  branch  is  proud  Medina  Cell— 
Such  titles  with  their  blazonry  are  his 
Who  keeps  this  fortress,  its  sworn  governor. 
Lord  of  the  valley,  mastfr  of  the  town, 
Commanding  whom  he  will,  himself  commanded 
By  Christ  his  Lord  who  sees  liim  from  tVie  Cro.ss 
And  from  bright  heaven  where  the  Mother  pleads  ;- 
By  good  Saint  James  upon  the  milk-white  steed. 
Who  leaves  his  bliss  to  fight  for  chosen  Spjyn  ;— 
By  the  dead  gaze  of  all  his  ancestors;— 
And  by  the  mystery  of  his  Spanish  blood 
Charged  with  the  awe  and  glories  of  the  past. 

See  now  with  soldiers  in  his  front  and  rear 
lie  winds  at  evening  through  the  nariow  streets 
That  toward  the  Castle  gate  climb  devious: 
His  charger,  of  fine  Audalusiau  slock. 
An  Indian  beauty,  black  but  delicate^ 
la  eojiscious  of  the  herald  trumpet  note, 
Tlie  gatheiiug  glances,  and  familiar  ways 
That  lead  fast  homeward:  she  forgets  fatigue, 
And  at  the  light  touch  of  the  master's  spur 
Thrills  with  the  zeal  to  bear  him  royally. 
Arches  her  neck  and  clambers  up  the  stones 
As  if  disdainful  of  the  diflicult  steep. 
Night-black  the  charger,  blaek  the  rider's  plume, 
But  all  between  is  bright  with  morning  hues- 
Seems  ivory  and  gold  and  deep  blue  gems, 
And  starry  flashing  steel  and  pale  verrailiuu, 
All  set  in  jasper:  on  his  surcoat  white 
Glitter  the  sword-belt  and  the  jewelled  hilt, 
Red  on  the  back  and  breast  the  holy  cross, 
And  'twist  the  helmet  aud  the  soft-spun  white 
Thick  tuvny  wavelets  like  the  lion's  mane 
Turn  backward  from  his  brow,  pale,  wide,  erect, 
Shadowing  blue  eyes— blue  as  the  rain-washed  sky 


103 


W4  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

That  braced  the  early  stem  of  Gothic  kings 

lie  claims  for  ancestry,     A  goodly  knight, 

A  noble  caballero,  broad  of  chest 

And  long  of  limb.    So  mnch  the  August  sun, 

Now  in  the  west  but  shooting  half  its  beams 

Past  a  dark  rocky  prolilc  toward  the  plain, 

At  windings  of  the  ])atli  across  the  slope 

Makes  suddenly  hnninoiis  for  all  who  see: 

For  women  smiling  from  the  terraced  roofs ; 

For  boys  that  prone  on  trucks  with  head  up-propped 

Lazy  and  curious,  siare  irreverent; 

For  men  who  make  obeisance  with  degrees 

Of  good-will  shading  towards  servilitj', 

Where  good-will  ends  and  secret  fear  begins 

Aud  curses,  too,  low-muttered  through  the  teeth. 

Explanatory  to  the  God  of  Shem. 

Five,  grouped  within  a  whitened  tavern  court 
Of  Moorish  fashion,  where  the  trellised  vines 
Purpling  above  their  heads  make  odorous  shade. 
Note  through  the  open  door  the  passers-by, 
Getting  some  rills  of  novelty  to  speed 
The  lagging  stream  of  talk  aud  help  the  wine. 
'Tis  Christian  to  drink  wine:  whoso  denies 
His  flesh  at  bidding  save  of  Holy  Church, 
Let  him  beware  and  take  to  Christian  sins 
Lest  he  be  taxed  with  Moslem  sanctity. 

The  souls  are  five,  the  talkers  only  three. 

(No  time,  most  tainted  by  wrong  faith  and  rule. 

But  holds  some  listeners  and  dumb  animals.) 

MiNR  Host  is  one:  he  with  the  well-arched  nose, 

Soft-eyed,  fat-hauded,  loving  men  for  nought 

But  his  own  humor,  patting  old  aud  young 

Upon  the  back,  and  mentioning  the  cost 

With  confidential  blaudness,  as  a  tax. 

That  he  collected  much  against  his  will 

From  Spaniards  who  were  all  his  bosom  friends: 

Warranted  Christian— else  how  lieep  an  inn, 

Which  calling  aslcs  true  faith?  though  like  his  wine 

Of  cheaper  sort,  a  trifle  over-new. 

His  father  was  a  convert,  chose  the  chrism 

As  men  choose  physic,  kept  his  chimney  warm 

AVith  smokiest  wood  upon  a  Saturday, 

Counted  his  gains  and  grudges  on  a  chaplet. 

And  crossed  himself  asleep  for  fear  of  spies; 

Trusting  the  God  of  Israel  would  see 

'Twas  Christian  tyranny  that  made  him  base. 

Our  host  his  son  was  born  ten  years  too  soon. 

Had  heard  his  mother  call  him  Epliraim, 

Knew  holy  things  from  common,  thought  it  sin 

To  feast  on  days  when  Israel's  children  mourned, 

So  had  to  be  converted  with  his  sire, 

To  doff  the  awe  he  learned  as  Ephraim, 

Aud  suit  his  manners  to  a  Christian  name. 

But  infant  awe,  that  unborn  moving  thing, 

Dies  with  what  nourished  it,  can  never  rise 

From  the  dead  womb  and  walk  aud  seek  new  pasture. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  105 

Thus  baptism  seemed  to  him  a  merry  game 

Not  tried  before,  all  sacraments  a  mode 

Of  doing  homage  for  one's  property, 

And  all  religious  a  queer  human  whim 

Or  else  a  vice,  according  to  degrees  : 

As,  'tis  a  whim  to  like  your  cliestnnts  hot, 

Burn  your  own  mouth  and  draw  your  face  awry, 

A  vice  to  pelt  frogs  with  them — animals 

Content  to  talie  life  coolly.    And  Lorenzo 

Would  have  all  lives  made  easy,  even  lives 

Of  spiders  and  inquisitors,  yet  still 

Wishing  so  well  to  flies  and  Moors  and  Jews 

He  rather  wished  the  others  easy  death; 

For  loving  all  men  clearly  was  deferred 

Till  all  men  loved  each  other.    Such  mine  Host, 

With  chiselled  smile  caressing  Seneca, 

The  solemn  mastift"  leaning  on  his  knee.  • 

His  right-hand  guest  is  solemn  as  the  dog. 

Square-faced  and  massive:  Blasco  is  his  name, 

A  prosperous  silversmith  from  Aragou ; 

lu  speech  not  silvery,  rather  tuued  as  notes 

From  a  deep  vessel  made  of  plenteous  iron, 

Or  some  great  bell  of  slow  but  certain  swing 

That,  if  you  only  wait,  will  tell  the  hour 

As  well  as  flippant  clocks  that  strike  in  haste 

And  set  ofl"  chiming  a  superfluous  tune — 

Like  Jdan  there,  the  spare  man  with  the  lute, 

Who  makes  you  dizzy  with  his  rapid  tongue. 

Whirring  athwart  your  mind  with  comment  swift 

On  speech  you  would  have  finished  by  and  by. 

Shooting  your  bird  for  you  while  you  are  loading. 

Cheapening  your  wisdom  as  a  pattern  known, 

Woven  by  any  shuttle  on  demand. 

Can  never  sit  quite  still,  too :  sees  a  wasp 

And  kills  it  with  a  movement  like  a  flash  ; 

Whistles  low  notes  or  seems  to  thrum  his  lute 

As  a  mere  hyphen  'twixt  two  syllables 

Of  any  steadier  man ;  walks  up  aud  down 

And  snuffs  the  orange  flowers  and  shoots  a  pea 

To  hit  a  streak  of  light  let  through  the  awning. 

Has  a  queer  face:  eyes  large  as  plums,  a  nose 

Small,  round,  uneven,  like  a  bit  of  wax 

Melted  and  cooled  by  chance.    Thin-fingered,  lithe, 

And  as  a  squirrel  noiseless,  startling  men 

Only  by  quickness.    In  his  speech  aud  look 

A  touch  of  graceful  wildness,  as  of  things 

Not  trained  or  tamed  for  uses  of  the  world ; 

Most  like  the  Fauns  that  roamed  in  days  of  old 

About  the  listening  whispering  woods,  aud  shared 

The  subtler  sense  of  sylvan  ears  and  eyes 

Uudulled  by  scheming  thought,  yet  joined  the  rout 

Of  men  and  women  on  tlie  festal  days, 

And  played  the  syrinx  too,  and  knew  love's  pains, 

Turning  their  anguish  into  melody. 

For  Juan  was  a  minstrel  still,  in  times 

When  minstrelsy  was  held  a  thing  outworn. 


lOG  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

Spirits  eeem  buried  and  their  epitaph 
Is  writ  in  Lntin  by  severest  pens, 
Yet  still  tiiey  flit  above  the  trodden  grave 
And  fuid  new  bodies,  animating  them 
In  qnaint  and  ghostly  way  with  antique  souls. 
So  Juan  was  a  troubadour  revived, 
Freshening  lifc's  dusty  road  with  babbling  rills 
Of  wit  and  song,  living  'mid  harnessed  men 
With  limbs  ungalled  by  armor,  ready  so 
To  soothe  them  weary,  and  to  cheer  them  sad. 
Guest  at  the  board,  companion  in  the  camp, 
A  crystal  mirror  to  the  life  around. 
Flashing  the  comment  keen  of  simple  fact 
Dctined  in  words;  lending  brief  lyric  voice 
To  grief  and  sadness;  liardly  taking  note 
Of  difference  betwixt  his  own  and  others'; 
,  But  rather  singing  as  a  listener 

To  the  deep  moans,  the  cries,  the  wild  strong  joys 
Of  universal  Nature,  old  yet  young. 
Such  Juan,  the  third  talker,  sliimmeriffg  bright 
As  butterfly  or  bird  with  quickest  life. 

The  silent  Roldan  has  his  brightness  too, 

But  only  in  his  spangles  and  rosettes. 

Ilis  parti-colored  vest  and  crimson  hose 

Are  dulled  with  old  Valeucian  dust,  his  eyes 

With  straining  tifty  years  at  gilded  balls 

To  catch  them  dancing,  or  with  brazen  looks 

At  men  and  women  as  he  made  his  jests 

Some  thousand  times  and  watched  to  count  the  pence 

His  wife  was  gathering.    His  olive  face 

Has  an  old  writing  iu  it,  characters 

Stamped  deep  by  grins  that  had  no  merriment, 

The  soul's  rude  mark  i)roclaiming  all  its  blank; 

As  on  some  faces  that  have  long  grown  old 

In  lifting  tapers  up  to  forms  obscene 

On  ancient  walls  and  chuckling  witli  false  zest 

To  please  my  lord,  who  gives  the  larger  fee 

For  that  hard  industry  in  apishncss. 

Roldan  would  gladly  never  laugh  again; 

Pensioned,  he  would  be  grave  as  any  ox. 

And  having  beans  and  crumbs  and  oil  secured 

Would  borrow  no  man's  jokes  for  evermore. 

'Tis  harder  now  because  his  wife  is  gone. 

Who  had  quick  feet,  and  danced  to  ravishment 

Of  every  ring  jewelled  with  Spanish  eyes. 

But  died  and  left  this  boy,  lame  from  his  birth, 

And  sad  and  obstinate,  though  when  he  will 

He  sings  God-taught  such  marrow-thrilling  strains 

As  seem  the  very  voice  of  dying  Spring, 

A  lliitc-like  wail  that  mourns  the  blossoms  gone, 

And  sinks,  and  is  not,  like  their  fragrant  breath, 

With  flue  transition  on  the  trembling  air. 

He  sits  as  if  imprisoned  by  some  fear. 

Motionless,  with  wide  eyes  that  seem  not  made 

For  hungry  glancing  of  a  twelve-year'd  boy 

To  mark  the  living  thing  that  he  could  tease. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  107 

But  for  tho  s;f>ze  of  some  primeval  sadness 
Dark  twin  witli  light  in  the  creative  raj-. 
This  little  Paut.o  has  his  spangles  too, 
And  large  rosettes  to  hide  his  poor  left  foot 
Rounded  like  any  hoof  (his  mother  thought 
God  willed  it  so  to  punish  all  her  sins). 

I  said  the  souls  were  five — besides  the  dog. 

But  there  was  still  a  sixth,  witli  wrinkled  face, 

Grave  and  disgusted  with  all  merriment 

Not  less  than  Roklan.     It  is  Aijniisai,, 

The  experienced  monkey  who  performs  the  trick.=, 

Jumps  through  the  hoops,  and  carries  round  itie  hat. 

Once  full  of  sallies  and  impromptu  feats, 

Nov?  cautious  not  to  light  on  auglit  that's  new, 

Lest  he  be  whipped  to  do  it  o"er  again 

From  A  to  Z,  and  make  the  gentry  laugh: 

A  misanthropic  monkey,  gray  and  grim, 

Bearing  a  lot  that  has  no  remedy 

For  want  of  concert  in  the  monkey  tribe. 

"We  see  tho  company,  above  their  beads 
The  braided  matMng,  goldeii  as  Hpe  com, 
Stretched  in  a  curving  strip  close  by  the  grapes. 
Elsewhere  rolled  back  to  greet  the  cooler  sky ; 
A  fountain  near,  vase-shapen  and  broad-lipped. 
Where  timorous  birds  alight  with  tiny  feet. 
And  hesitate  and  bend  wise  listening  ears. 
And  fly  away  again  with  undipped  beak. 
On  the  stone  floor  tho  juggler's  heaped-up  goods, 
Carpet  and  hoops,  viol  and  tambourine, 
■Where  Aunibal  sits  perched  with  brows  severe, 
A  serious  ape  whom  none  take  seriously, 
Obliged  iu  this  fool's  world  to  earn  his  nuts 
By  hard  buffoonery.    "U'e  see  them  all, 
And  hear  their  talk — the  talk  of  Spanish  men. 
With  Southern  intonation,  vowels  turned 
Caressingly  between  the  consonants, 
Persuasive,  willing,  with  such  intervals 
As  music  borrows  from  the  wooing  birds, 
That  plead  with  subtly  curving,  sweet  desccHt — 
And  yet  can  quarrel,  as  these  Spaniards  can. 

Jua:n  {near  tlie  doorway). 

You  hear  the  trumpet  ?    There's  old  Ramon's  blast. 

No  bray  but  his  can  shake  the  air  so  well. 

He  takes  his  trumpeting  as  solemnly 

As  angel  charged  to  wake  the  dead ;  thinks  war 

Was  made  for  trumpeters,  and  their  great  art 

Made  solely  for  themselves  who  understand  it. 

His  featui-es  all  have  shaped  themselves  to  blowing. 

And  when  his  trumpet's  bagged  or  left  at  home 

He  seems  a  chattel  in  a  broker's  booth, 

A  spoutless  watering-can,  a  promise  to  pay 

No  sum  particular.    O  fine  old  Ramon  ! 

The  blasts  get  louder  and  the  clattering  hoofs; 

Tliey  crack  the  ear  as  well  as  heaven's  thunder 

For  owls  that  listen  blinking.    There's  the  banner. 


108  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


Host  {joining  him :  the  others  follow  to  the  door). 

The  Duke  hiis  fmislicd  reconnoitring,  then? 

We  sliall  lienr  news.    Tliey  say  he  means  a  siilly— 

Would  strilcc  El  Zai^'al's  Moors  as  they  push  home 

Like  ants  with  booty  heavier  than  themselves; 

Then,  joined  by  other  nobles  with  their  bands, 

Lay  siege  to  Guadix.     Juan,  you're  a  bird 

That  nest  within  the  Castle.    What  say  you? 

Juan. 

Nought,  I  say  nought.    'Tis  but  a  toilsome  game 

To  bet  upon  lliat  leather  Policy, 

And  guess  where  after  twice  a  hundred  puffs 

'Twill  catch  another  feather  crossing  it: 

Guess  how  the  Po|)e  will  blow  and  how  the  king; 

What  force  my  lady's  fan  has ;  how  a  cough 

Seizing  the  Padre's  throat  may  raise  a  gust, 

And  how  the  queen  may  sigh  the  feather  down. 

Such  catching  at  imaginary  threads. 

Such  spinning  twisted  air,  is  not  for  me. 

If  I  should  want  a  game,  I'll  rather  bet 

On  racing  snails,  two  large,  slow,  lingering  snails — 

No  spurring,  equal  weights— a  chance  sublime, 

Nothing  to  guess  at,  pure  uncertainty. 

Here  comes  the  Duke.    They  give  but  feeble  shouts. 

And  some  look  sour. 

Host. 

That  spoils  a  fair  occasion. 
Civility  brings  no  conclusions  with  it. 
And  cheerful  Vivas  malce  the  moments  glide 
Instead  of  grating  like  a  rusty  wheel. 

JiTAN. 

O  they  are  dullards,  kick  because  they're  etting, 
And  bruise  a  friend  to  show  they  hate  a  wasp. 

Host. 

Best  treat  your  wasp  with  delicate  regard ; 
When  the  right  moment  comes  say,  "By  your  leave," 
Use  your  heel— so !  and  make  au  end  of  him. 
That's  if  we  talked  of  wasps;  but  our  young  Duke- 
Spain  holds  not  a  more  gallant  gentleman. 
Live,  live,  Duke  Silva!    'Tis  a  rare  smile  he  has. 
But  seldom  seen. 

Joan. 

A  true  hidalgo's  smile, 
That  gives  much  favor,  but  beseeches  none 
His  smile  is  sweetened  by  bis  gravity: 
It  comes  like  dawn  upon  Sierra  snows, 
Seeming  more  generous  for  the  coldness  gone; 
Breaks  from  the  calm — a  sudden  opening  llower 
On  dark  deep  waters:  now  a  chalice  shut, 
A  mystic  shrine,  the  next  a  fidl-rayed  star. 
Thrilling,  pulse-quickening  as  a  living  word. 
I'll  make  a  song  of  that. 


THE   SPANISH  GYPSY.  109 


Host. 

Prithee,  not  now. 
You'll  fiill  to  staring  like  a  wooden  saint, 
And  wag  your  head  as  it  were  Ect  on  wires. 
IIcre'.s  fresh  sherbet.     Sit,  be  good  company. 
(To  Bi.Asco)  You  are  a  stranger,  sir,  and  cannot  know 
Uow  our  Duke's  nature  suits  his  princely  frame. 

Br.ASco. 

Nay,  bnt  I  marked  his  spurs — chased  cunningly ! 

A  duke  should  know  good  gold  and  silver  plate ; 

Then  he  will  know  the  quality  of  mine. 

I've  ware  for  tables  and  for  altars  too, 

Our  Lady  in  all  sizes,  crosses,  bells : 

He'll  need  snch  weapons  full  as  much  as  swords 

If  he  would  Ciipture  any  Moorish  town. 

For,  let  me  tell  you,  when  a  mosque  is  cleansed  .  .  . 

Juan. 

The  demons  fly  so  thick  from  sound  of  bells 

And  smell  of  incense,  you  may  see  the  air 

Streaked  with  them  as  with  smoke.     Why,  they  are  spirits: 

You  may  well  think  how  crowded  they  must  be 

To  make  a  sort  of  haze. 

Blasco. 

I  knew  not  that. 
Still,  they're  of  smoky  nature,  demons  arc ; 
And  since  you  say  so— well,  it  proves  the  moie 
The  need  of  bells  and  censers.    Ay,  your  Duke 
Sat  well:  a  true  hidalgo.    I  can  judge— 
Of  harness  specially.    I  saw  the  camp. 
The  royal  camp  at  Velez  Malaga. 
'Twas  like  the  court  of  heaven— such  liveries! 
And  torches  carried  by  the  score  at  night 
Before  the  nobles.    Sirs,  I  made  a  dish 
To  set  an  emerald  in  would  fit  a  crown. 
For  Don  AIoiizo,  lord  of  Aguilar. 
Your  Duke's  no  whit  behind  him  in  his  mien 
Or  harness  either.     But  you  seem  to  say 
The  people  love  bim  not. 

UosT. 

They've  nought  against  him. 
But  certain  winds  will  make  men's  temper  bad. 
When  the  Solano  blows  hot  venomed  breath. 
It  acts  upon  men's  knives:  steel  takes  to  stabbing 
Which  else,  with  cooler  winds,  were  honest  steel, 
Cutting  but  garlic.    There's  a  wind  just  now 
Blows  right  from  Seville — 

Blasoo. 

Ay,  you  mean  the  wind  .  .  , 
Yes,  yes,  a  wind  that's  rather  liot  .  .  . 

Host. 

With  fagots. 


110  THE  SPANISH  GYrSY. 


Juan. 

A  wind  that  siiit«  in)t  with  our  townsmen's  blood. 

Abram,  'lis  t:aid,  objected  to  be  scorched, 

And,  as  the  learned  Arabs  vouch,  he  gave 

Tlie  antipathy  in  full  to  Ishmaol. 

"lis  trtie,  these  patriarchs  had  their  oddities. 

Blasco. 

Their  oddities  ?    I'm  of  their  mind,  1  know. 

Thoupfh,  as  to  Abraham  and  IshmaiJl, 

I'm  an  old  Chriistian,  and  owe  nought  to  them 

Or  any  Jew  among  them.    But  I  know 

We  made  a  stir  in  Saragossa— we : 

The  men  of  Aragou  ring  hard— true  metal. 

Sirs,  I'm  no  friend  to  heresy,  but  theu 

A  Christian'.s  money  is  not  safe.     As  how? 

A  lapsing  Jew  or  any  heretic 

May  owe  me  twenty  ounces:  suddenly 

He's  pi'isoned,  suffers  ))cnalties— 'tis  well : 

If  meu  will  not  believe,  'tis  good  to  make  them, 

But  let  the  penalties  fall  ou  them  alone. 

Tlic  Jew  is  stripped,  his  goods  are  confiscate; 

Now,  where,  I  pray  yon,  go  my  twenty  ounces? 

GikI  know.s,  and  perhaps  the  King  maj',  but  not  I. 

And  more,  my  son  may  lose  bis  young  wife's  dower 

Because  'twas  promised  since  her  father's  soul 

Fell  to  wrong  thinking.    How  was  I  to  know? 

I  could  but  use  my  seuse  and  cross  myself. 

Christian  is  Christiau— I  give  in— but  still 

Taxing  is  taxing,  though  you  call  it  holy. 

We  Saragossans  liked  not  this  new  tax 

Thoy  call  the— nonsense,  I'm  from  Aragon ! 

I  speak  too  bluntly.    But,  for  Holy  Church, 

No  man  believes  more. 

Host. 

Nay,  sir,  never  fear. 
Qood  Master  Roldaa  here  is  no  delator. 

RoLDAN  {starting  from  a  reverie). 

You  speak  to  me,  sirs?    I  perform  to-night— 
The  Plafa  Santiago.     Twenty  tricks, 
All  different.     I  dance,  too.    And  the  boy 
Sings  like  a  bird.    I  crave  your  patronage. 

Blaboo. 

Faith,  you  shall  have  it,  sir.    In  travelling 
I  take  a  little  freedom,  and  am  gay. 
You  marked  not  what  I  said  just  now  ? 

ROI.DATJ. 

I?  no. 
I  pray  your  pardon.    I've  a  twinging  knee, 
That  makes  it  hard  to  listen.    You  were  saying? 

Blaboo. 
Nay,  it  was  nought.    (Aside  to  lloat)  Is  it  his  deepness  t 


TIIE   SPANISH  GYPSY.  Ill 

Host. 

No. 
He's  deep  iu  nothing  but  his  poverty. 

Blaboo. 

Bnt  'twas  his  poverty  that  made  me  thiuk  .  .  . 

IIOST. 

His  piety  might  wish  to  keep  the  feasts 
As  well  as  fasts.    No  fear;  he  hears  not. 

Br.ASoo. 

Good. 
I  speak  my  mind  about  the  penalties, 
But,  look  you,  I'm  against  assassination. 
You  know  my  meaning— Master  Arbues, 
The  Grand  Inquisitor  in  Aragon. 
I  knew  nought— paid  no  copper  towards  the  deed. 
But  I  was  there,  at  prayers,  within  the  church. 
How  could  I  help  it?    Why,  the  saints  were  there. 
And  looked  straight  on  above  the  altars.    I  .  .  . 

Juan. 
Looked  carefully  another  way. 

Blasoo. 

Why,  at  my  be;ids. 
'Twas  after  midnight,  and  the  canons  all 
Were  chanting  matins.    I  was  not  in  church 
To  gape  and  stare.     I  saw  the  martyr  kneel: 
I  never  liked  the  look  of  him  alive- 
He  was  no  martyr  then.    I  thought  he  made 
An  ugly  shadow  as  he  crept  athwart 
The  bands  of  light,  then  passed  within  the  gloom 
By  the  broad  pillar.     'Twas  iu  our  great  Seo, 
At  Saragossa.    The  pillars  tower  so  large 
You  cross  yourself  to  see  them,  lest  white  Death 
Should  hide  behind  their  dark.    And  so  it  was. 
I  looked  away  again  and  told  my  beads 
Unthinkingly ;  but  still  a  man  has  ears  ; 
And  right  across  the  chanting  came  a  sound 
As  if  a  tree  had  crashed  above  the  roar 
Of  some  great  torrent.    So  it  seemed  to  me  ; 
For  when  you  listen  long  and  shut  your  eyes 
Small  sounds  get  thunderous.    He  had  a  shell 
Like  any  lobster:  a  good  iron  suit 
From  top  to  toe  beneath  the  innocent  serge. 
That  made  the  tell-tale  sound.    But  then  came  shrieks. 
The  chanting  stopped  and  turned  to  rushing  feet, 
And  iu  the  midst  lay  Master  Arbues, 
Felled  like  an  ox.    'Twas  wicked  butchery. 
Some  honest  men  had  hoped  it  would  have  scared 
The  Inquisition  out  of  Aragon. 
'Twas  money  thrown  away— I  would  say,  crime- 
Clean  thrown  away. 

Host. 

That  was  a  pity  now. 
Next  to  a  missing  thrust,  what  irks  me  most 


ir^  THE  SPANISH  OYTSY. 

Is  a  neat  well-aimed  stroke  that  kills  your  man, 

Yet  cuds  in  mischief— as  iu  Aragou. 

It  was  a  lesson  to  our  people  here. 

Else  there's  a  monk  within  our  city  walls, 

A  holy,  hit;h-born,  stem  Dominican, 

They  might  have  made  the  great  mistake  to  kill. 

Br.ASOo. 

What !  is  he  ?  .  .  . 

Host. 

Yes  ;  a  Master  Arbuos 
Of  finer  quality.    The  Prior  here 
And  uucle  to  our  Duke. 

Bl.ASOO, 

Ue  will  want  plate : 
A  holy  pillar  or  a  crucifix. 
But,  did  you  say,  he  was  like  Arbues? 

Juan. 

As  a  black  eagle  with  gold  beak  and  claws 

Is  like  a  raven.    Even  iu  his  cowl, 

Covered  from  head  to  foot,  the  Prior  is  known 

From  all  the  black  herd  round.     Wlieu  he  uncovers 

And  stands  whitc-frocked,  with  ivory  face,  his  eyes 

Black-gleaming,  black  his  coronal  of  hair 

Like  shredded  jasper,  he  seems  less  a  man 

With  struggling  aims,  than  pure  incarnate  Will, 

Fit  to  subdue  rebellious  nations,  nay. 

That  human  flesh  he  breathes  iu,  charged  with  passion 

Which  quivers  in  his  nostril  and  his  lip, 

But  disciplined  by  long  in-dwelling  will 

To  silent  labor  iu  the  yoke  of  law. 

A  truce  to  thy  comparisons,  Lorenzo ! 

Thine  is  no  subtle  nose  for  diiference  ; 

'Tis  dulled  by  feigning  and  civility. 

IIOST. 

Pooh,  thou'rt  a  poet,  crazed  with  finding  words 

May  stick  to  things  and  seem  like  qualities. 

No  pebble  is  a  pebble  iu  thy  hands: 

'Tis  a  moon  out  of  work,  a  barren  egg, 

Or  tweuty  things  that  no  man  sees  but  thee. 

Our  Father  Isidor's — a  living  saint. 

And  that  is  heresy,  some  townsmen  think : 

Saints  should  be  dead,  accordiug  to  the  Church. 

My  mind  is  this :  the  Father  is  so  holy 

'Twere  sin  to  wish  his  soul  detained  from  bliss. 

Easy  translation  to  the  realms  above, 

The  shortest  journey  to  the  seventh  heaven, 

Is  what  I'd  never  grudge  him. 

Br.Asoo. 

Piously  said. 
Look  you,  I'm  dutiful,  obey  the  Church 
When  there's  no  hclj)  for  it:  I  mean  to  say, 
When  Pope  and  Bishop  and  all  customers 
Order  alike.     But  there  be  bishops  now, 


THE  BPAlflSn  GYPSY.  113 

AucI  were  aforetime,  who  have  held  it  wrong, 

This  hurry  to  convert  the  Jews.    As  how? 

Your  Jew  pays  tribute  to  the  bishop,  say. 

That's  good,  and  must  please  God,  to  see  the  Church 

Maintained  in  ways  that  ease  the  Christian's  purse. 

Convert  the  Jew,  and  where's  the  tribute,  pray  ? 

lie  lapses,  too:  'tis  slippery  work,  conversion: 

And  then  the  holy  taxing  carries  oflf 

ills  money  at  one  sweep.    No  tribute  more ! 

He's  penitent  or  burnt,  and  there's  an  end. 

Now  guess  which  pleases  God  .  .  . 

JnAN. 

Whether  he  likes 
A  well-burnt  Jew  or  well-fed  bishop  best. 

[While  Juan  put  this  problem  theologic 
Entered,  with  resonant  step,  another  guest— 
A  Soldier:  all  his  keenness  in  his  sword, 
Ilis  eloquence  in  scars  upon  his  cheek. 
His  virtue  in  much  slaying  of  the  Moor  : 
With  brow  well-creased  in  horizontal  folds 
To  save  the  space,  as  having  nought  to  do: 
Lips  prone  to  whistle  whisperingly — no  tune, 
But  trotting  rhythm:  meditative  eyes, 
Most  often  fl.xcd  upon  his  legs  and  spurs : 
Styled  Captain  Lopez.] 

Lopez. 

At  your  service,  sirs. 

JDA.N. 

Ila,  Lopez  ?    Why,  thou  hast  a  face  full-charged 
As  any  herald's.    What  news  of  the  wars? 

LOI'EZ. 

Such  news  as  is  most  bitter  on  my  tongue. 

J0AN. 

Then  spit  it  forth. 

Host. 

Sit,  Captain:  here's  a  cup, 
Frosh-filled.    What  news? 

Lopez. 
'Tis  bad.    We  make  no  sally: 
We  sit  still  here  and  wait  whate'er  the  Moor 
Sljall  please  to  do. 

Host. 

Some  townsmen  will  be  glad. 

Lopr.z. 
Glad,  will  they  be?    But  I'm  not  glad,  not  I, 
Nor  any  Spanish  soldier  of  clean  blood. 
But  the  Duke's  wisdom  is  to  wait  a  siege 
Instead  of  laying  one.    Therefore— meantime — 
He  will  be  married  straightway. 

Host. 

Ha,  hn,  ha  ! 
Thy  speech  is  like  an  hour-glass ;  turn  it  down 

20  F 


114  THE  SPANISU  OYPSV. 

The  other  way,  'twill  stand  as  well,  aud  Bay 
The  Duke  will  wed,  theicfDic  he  waits  a  siege. 
But  what  say  Don  Diego  and  the  Prior? 
The  holy  uucle  and  the  fiery  Don? 

Lol'KZ. 

0  there  be  sayings  running  all  abroad 

As  thick  as  nuts  o'erturued.     No  man  need  lack. 
Some  say,  'twas  letters  changed  the  Duke's  intent: 
From  Malaga,  says  Bias.     From  Home,  says  Quintiu. 
From  spies  at  Guadix,  says  Sebastian. 
Some  say,  'tis  all  a  pretest— say,  the  Duke 
Is  but  a  lapdog  hanging  on  a  skirt. 
Turning  his  eyeballs  upward  like  a  monk: 
'Twas  Don  Diego  said  that— so  says  Bias; 
Last  week,  he  said  .  .  . 

Juan. 

O  do  without  the  "said!" 
Open  thy  mouth  aud  pause  in  lieu  of  it. 

1  had  as  lief  be  pelted  with  a  pea 
Irregularly  iu  the  self-same  spot 

As  hear  such  iteration  without  rale. 
Such  torture  of  uncertain  certainty. 

Lopi'-z. 

Santiago  1  Juan,  thou  art  hard  to  jilease. 
I  speak  not  for  my  own  delighting,  I. 
I  can  be  silent,  I. 

Blasoo. 

Nay,  sir,  speak  on  1 
I  like  your  matter  well.  I  deal  in  plate. 
This  wedding  touches  me.    Who  is  the  bride? 

Lopez. 

One  that  some  say  the  Duke  does  ill  to  wed. 

One  that  his  mother  reared— God  rest  her  soul ! — 

Duchess  Diana — she  who  died  last  year. 

A  bird  picked  up  away  from  any  nest. 

Her  name— the  Duchess  gave  it— is  Fedalma. 

No  harm  iu  that.    But  the  Duke  stoops,  they  say, 

In  wedding  her.    Aud  that's  the  simple  truth. 

Juan. 

Thy  simple  truth  is  but  a  false  opinion: 
The  simple  truth  of  asses  who  believe 
Their  thistle  is  the  very  best  of  food. 
Fie,  Lopez,  thou  a  Spaniard  with  a  sword 
Dreamest  a  Spanish  noble  ever  stoops 
By  doing  honor  to  the  maid  he  loves ! 
He  stoops  alone  wheu  he  dishonors  her. 

Loprz. 
Na}',  I  said  nought  against  her. 

JliAN. 

Bettor  not. 
Else  I  would  challcuge  thee  to  light  with  wits. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  115 

And  spear  thee  through  anil  through  ere  thou  conldst  draw 

The  bhintest  word.     Ye?,  yes,  consult  thy  spurs  : 

Spurs  are  a  sign  of  knighthood,  and  should  toll  thee 

That  knightly  love  is  blent  with  reverence 

As  heavenly  air  is  blent  with  heavenly  blue. 

Don  Silva's  heart  beats  to  a  loyal  tune: 

lie  wills  no  highest-born  Castilian  dame, 

Betrothed  to  highest  noble,  should  be  held 

More  sacred  than  Fedalma.    He  enshrines 

Iler  virgin  image  for  the  general  awe 

AtmI  for  his  own — will  guard  her  from  the  world, 

Nay,  his  profauer  self,  lest  he  should  lose 

The  place  of  his  religiou.    He  does  well. 

Nought  cau  come  closer  to  the  poet's  strain. 

Host. 

Or  farther  from  his  practice,  Juan,  eh  ? 
If  thou'rt  a  sample? 

JU.VN. 

Wrong  there,  my  Lorenzo ! 
Touching  Fedalma  the  poor  poet  plays 
A  finer  part  even  than  the  noble  Duke. 

Lopez.  \ 

By  making  ditties,  singing  with  round  mouth 
Likest  a  crowing  cock?    Thou  meanest  that? 

Juan. 

Lopez,  take  physic,  thou  art  getting  ill. 

Growing  descriptive;  'tis  unnatural. 

I  mean,  Don  Silva's  love  expects  reward. 

Kneels  with  a  heaven  to  come ;  but  the  poor  poet 

Worships  without  reward,  nor  hopes  to  find 

A  heaven  save  in  his  worship.    He  adores 

TlKj  sweetest  woman  for  her  sweetness'  sake, 

Joys  in  the  love  that  was  not  born  for  him. 

Because  'tis  lovinguess,  as  beggars  joy. 

Warming  their  naked  limbs  on  wayside  walls, 

To  hear  a  tale  of  princes  and  their  glory. 

There's  a  poor  poet  (poor,  I  mean,  in  coin) 

Worships  Fedalma  with  so  true  a  love 

Tliat  if  her  silken  robe  were  changed  for  rags, 

And  she  were  driven  out  to  stony  wilds 

Btirefoot,  a  scorned  wanderer,  he  would  kiss 

Iler  ragged  garment's  edge,  and  only  ask 

For  leave  to  be  her  slave.    Digest  that,  friend, 

Or  let  it  lie  upon  thee  as  a  weight 

To  check  light  thinking  of  Fedalma. 

Lopez. 

I? 

I  think  no  harm  of  her;  I  thank  the  saints 
I  wear  a  sword  and  peddle  not  in  thinking. 
'Tis  Father  Marcos  says  she'll  not  confess 
And  loves  not  holy  water;  says  her  blood 
Is-  infidel ;  says  the  Duke's  wedding  her 
Is  union  of  light  with  darkness. 


116  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

Juan. 

Tush ! 

[Now  Jimn — who  by  snatches  touched  hia  kite 

With  soft  arpeggio,  like  ii  whispered  dream 

Of  sleeping  music,  while  he  spoke  of  love — 

In  jesting  auger  at  the  soldier's  talk 

Thrummed  loud  and  fast,  then  faster  aud  more  loud, 

Till,  as  he  answered  "Tush!"  he  struck  a  chord 

Sudden  as  whip-crack  close  by  Lopez'  car. 

Mine  Host  and  Blasco  smiled,  the  mastiff  barked, 

Roldan  looked  up  and  Anuibal  looked  down. 

Cautiously  neutral  in  so  new  a  case ; 

The  boy  raised  longing,  listcuiug  eyes  that  seemed 

An  exiled  sijirit's  waiting  iu  strained  hope 

Of  voices  coming  from  the  distant  land. 

But  Lopez  bore  the  assault  like  any  rock: 

That  was  not  what  he  drew  his  sword  at — he  ! 

lie  spoke  with  neck  erect.] 

LOPKZ. 

If  that's  a  hint 
The  company  sbould  ask  thee  for  a  song. 
Sing,  then  ! 

Host. 

Ay,  Juan,  sing,  and  jar  no  more. 
Something  brand  new.    Thou'rt  won't  to  make  my  oar 
A  test  of  novelties.    Hast  thou  aught  fresh  ? 

Juan. 

As  fresh  as  rain-drops.    Here's  a  Canciou 
Springs  like  a  tiny  mushroom  delicate 
Out  of  the  priest's  foul  scandal  of  Fedalraa. 

[He  preluded  with  querying  intervals, 
Rising,  then  falling  just  a  semitone, 
In  minor  cadence — sound  with  poisod  wing 
Hovering  and  quivering  towards  the  needed  fall. 
Then  iu  a  voice  that  shook  the  willing  air 
With  masculine  vibration  sang  this  song, 

Should  I  long  that  dark  were  fair  f 

Say,  O  song  ! 

Lacks  my  love  aught,  that  I  should  long  f 

Dark  the  night,  with  breath  all  floiv'rs, 

And  tender  broken  voice  that  Jills 

With  ravishment  the  listening  hours: 

Whisperings,  wooings, 

Liquid  ripples  and  soft  riiig-dove  cooings 

In  low-toned  rhythm  that  love''s  aching  stills. 

Dark  the  night, 

Yet  is  she  bright. 

For  in  her  dark  she  brings  the  mystic  star. 

Trembling  yet  strong,  as  is  the  voice  of  love. 

From,  some  unknown  afar. 

O  radiant  Dark!    0  darkly  fostered  ray! 

Tliou  hast  a  joy  too  deep  for  shalloio  Day. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  117 

While  Juan  sang,  all  round  tlie  tavern  court 

Gathered  a  constellation  of  black  eyes. 

Fat  Lola  leaned  upon  the  balcony 

With  arni.s  that  might  have  pillowed  Hercules 

(Who  built,  'tis  known,  the  mightiest  Spanish  towns)  ; 

Thin  Alda's  face,  sad  as  a  wasted  passion, 

Leaned  o'er  tlie  nodding  baby's;  'twixt  the  rails 

The  little  Pepe  showed  his  two  black  beads, 

Ills  flat-ringed  hair  and  small  Semitic  nose. 

Complete  and  tiny  as  a  new-born  minnow ; 

Patting  his  head  and  holding  in  her  arms 

The  baby  senior,  stood  Lorenzo's  wife 

All  negligent,  her  kerchief  discomposed 

By  little  clutches,  woman's  coquetry 

Quite  turned  to  mother's  cares  and  sweet  content. 

These  on  the  balcony,  while  at  the  door 

Gazed  the  lank  boys  and  laz}'-shouldered  men. 

'Tis  likely  too  the  rats  and  insects  peeped. 

Being  southern  Spanish  ready  for  a  lounge. 

The  singer  smiled,  as  doubtless  Orpheus  smiled, 

To  see  the  animals  both  great  and  small. 

The  mountainous  elephant  and  scampering  mouse, 

Ileld  by  the  ears  in  decent  audience ; 

Then,  when  mine  host  desired  the  strain  once  more, 

He  fell  to  preluding  with  rhythmic  change 

Of  notes  recurrent,  soft  as  pattering  drops 

That  fall  from  ofl"  the  eaves  in  fiiOry  dauce 

When  clouds  are  breaking ;  till  at  measured  pause 

He  struck  with  strength,  in  rare  responsive  chords.] 

Host. 

Come,  then,  a  gayer  ballad,  if  thou  wilt : 

I  quarrel  not  with  change.    What  say  you.  Captain  ? 

LoPBZ. 

All's  one  to  me.    I  note  no  change  of  tune, 
Not  L  save  iu  the  ring  of  horses'  hoofs, 
Or  iu  the  drums  and  trumpets  when  they  call 
To  action  or  retreat.    I  ne'er  could  see 
The  good  of  singing. 

Br.ASoo. 

Why,  it  passes  time — 
Saves  you  from  getting  over-wise :  that's  good. 
For,  look  yon,  fools  are  merry  here  below. 
Yet  they  will  go  to  heaven  all  the  same, 
Having  the  sacraments;  and,  look  you,  heaven 
Is  a  long  holiday,  and  solid  men. 
Used  to  much  business,  might  be  ill  at  ease 
Not  liking  play.     And  so,  iu  travelling, 
I  shape  myself  betimes  to  idleness 
And  take  fools'  pleasures  .  .  . 

Host. 

Hark,  the  song  begins ! 


118  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


Juan  (sings). 

Maiden,  crowned  ivitli  glussi/  blackness. 
Lithe  as  panther  forest-roaminrf. 

Long-armed  naiad,  lohcn  she  dances. 
On  a  stream  of  ether  floating — 

Bright,  0  bright  Fedalma  ! 

Form  all  curves  like  softness  drifted, 
Wave-kissed  marble  roundhj  dimpling, 

Far-off'  music  slowly  winged. 
Gently  rising,  gently  sinking- 
Bright,  O  bright  Fedalma  ! 

Pure  as  rain-tear  an  a  rose-leaf. 
Cloud  high-born  in  noonday  spotless. 

Sudden  perfect  as  the  dete-bead, 
Gem  of  earth  and  ftky  begotten — 

Bright,  O  bright  Fedalma  ! 

Beauty  Jias  tw  mortal  father. 

Holy  Ught  Iter  form  engendered 
Out  of  tremor,  yearning,  gladness. 

Presage  sweet  and  joy  remembered — 
Child  of  Light,  FedalvM  ! 

Bl.ASCO. 

Faith,  a  good  song,  snug  to  a  Stirling  Itiue. 
I  like  the  words  returning  in  a  round  ; 
It  gives  a  sort  of  sense.     Another  such ! 

KoLDAN  (.rising). 

Sirs,  you  will  hear  ray  hoy.    'Tis  very  hard 
Whea  gentles  t^iug  for  nought  to  all  the  town. 
How  can  a  poor  man  live  ?    And  now  'tis  time 
I  go  to  the  PhifH— who  will  give  me  pence 
When  he  can  hear  hidalgos  and  give  nought? 

Juan. 

True,  friend.    Be  pacified.    I'll  sing  no  more. 
Go  thou,  and  we  will  follow.     Never  fear. 
My  voice  is  common  as  the  ivy-Ieavcs,  • 
Plucked  in  all  seasons— bears  no  price ;  thy  hoy'n 
Is  like  the  almond  blossoms.    Ah,  he'.s  lame ! 

Host. 

Load  him  not  heavily.    Here,  Pedro!  help. 
Go  with  them  to  the  Plnca,  take  the  hoops. 
The  sights  will  pay  thee. 

Blasoo. 

I'll  be  there  anon, 
And  set  the  fashion  with  a  good  white  coin. 
But  let  us  see  as  well  as  hear. 

Host. 

Ay,  prithee. 
Some  tricks,  a  dance. 


THE  SrANISn  GYPSY.  119 

Blaboo. 

Yes,  'tis  more  rational. 

Roi.DAN  (turning  round  with  the  bundle  and  monkoij  on  his  .^honldcis). 

You  shall  see  all,  sirs.    There's  no  man  in  Spain 
Knows  his  art  better.    I've  a  twinging  knee 
Oft  hinders  dancing,  and  the  boy  is  lame. 
But  no  man's  monkey  has  more  tricks  than  mine. 

[At  this  high  praise  the  gloomy  Aunibal, 

Mournful  professor  of  high  drollery. 

Seemed  to  look  gloomier,  and  the  little  troop 

Went  slowly  out,  escorted  from  the  door 

By  all  the  idlers.    From  the  balcony 

Slowly  subsided  the  black  radiance 

Of  agate  eyes,  and  broke  in  chattering  sounds. 

Coaxings  and  trami)ings,  and  the  small  hoarse  squeak 

Of  Pope's  reed.     And  our  group  talked  again.] 

Host. 

I'll  get  this  juggler,  if  he  quits  hini  well, 

An  audience  here  as  choice  as  can  be  lured. 

For  me,  when  a  poor  devil  does  his  best, 

'Tis  my  delight  to  soothe  his  soul  with  praise. 

What  though  the  best  be  bad  ?  remains  the  good 

Of  throwing  food  to  a  lean  hungry  dog. 

I'd  give  up  the  best  jugglery  in  life 

To  see  a  miserable  juggler  pleased. 

But  that's  my  humor.    Crowds  are  malcontent 

As  cruel  as  the  Holy  .  .  .  Shall  we  go  ? 

All  of  us  now  together? 

LorEz. 

Well,  not  I. 
I  may  be  there  anon,  but  first  I  go 
To  the  lower  prison.    There  is  strict  command 
That  all  our  Gypsy  prisoners  shall  to-night 
Bo  lodged  within  the  fort.    They've  forged  enough 
Of  balls  and  bullets— used  up  all  the  metal. 
At  morn  to-morrow  they  must  carry  stones 
Up  the  south  tower.     'Tis  a  flue  stalwart  band, 
Fit  for  the  hardest  tasks.    Some  say,  the  queen 
Would  have  the  Gy])sies  banished  with  the  Jews. 
Some  say,  'twere  better  harness  them  for  work. 
They'd  feed  on  any  filth  and  save  the  Spaniard. 
Some  saj'— but  I  must  go.    'Twill  soon  be  time 
To  head  the  escort.    We  shall  meet  again. 

Blasoo. 

Go,  sir,  with  God  (exit  Lojtez).    A  very  proper  man, 

And  soldierly.    But,  for  this  banishment 

Some  men  are  hot  on,  it  ill  jileascs  me. 

The  Jews,  now  (sirs,  if  any  Christian  here 

Had  Jews  for  ancestors,  I  blame  him  not; 

We  cannot  all  be  Goths  of  Aragon) — 

Jews  are  not  tit  for  heaven,  but  on  earth 

They  are  most  useful.     'Tis  the  same  with  mnles. 


520  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

Horses,  or  oxen,  or  with  any  pig 

Except  Saint  Aiillioiiy's.    Tbcy  are  useful  here 

(The  Jews,  I  mean)  lliongli  llicy  may  <,'()  to  liell. 

And,  look  yon,  useful  siuH— wliy  Providence 

Sends  Jews  to  do  'em,  savinfc  Christian  souls. 

The  very  Gypsies,  curbed  and  harnessed  well, 

Would  make  draught  cattle,  feed  on  vermin  too, 

Cost  less  than  graziu"^  brutes,  nud  turn  bad  food 

To  handsome  carcasses  ;  Bweat  at  the  forge 

For  little  wages,  and  well  drilled  and  flogged 

Might  work  like  Blaves,  some  Spaniards  looking  on. 

I  deal  in  plate,  and  am  no  priest  to  say 

Wliat  God  may  mean,  save  when  he  means  jjlaiu  sense; 

r>iit  when  he  sent  the  Gypsies  wandering 

In  punishment  because  they  sheltered  not 

Our  Lady  ;ind  Saint  Joseph  {and  uo  doubt 

Stole  the  small  ass  they  lied  with  into  Egypt), 

Why  send  them  here?    'Tis  plain  he  saw  the  use 

They'd  be  to  Spaniards.     Shall  we  banish  them. 

And  tell  God  we  kuow  bettor?     'Tis  a  sin. 

They  talk  of  vermin  ;  but,  sirs,  vermin  largo 

Were  made  to  eat  the  small,  or  else  to  eat 

The  noxious  rubbish,  and  picked  Gy])sy  men 

Might  serve  iu  war  to  climb,  be  killed,  and  fall 

To  make  an  easy  ladder.    Once  I  saw 

A  Gypsy  sorcerer,  at  a  spring  and  grasp 

Kill  one  who  came  to  seize  him:  talk  of  strength  1 

Nay,  swiftness  too,  for  while  we  crossed  ourselves 

He  vauished  like— say  like  .  .  . 

Juan. 

A  swift  black  snake, 
Or  like  a  living  arrow  fledged  with  will. 

Br.Asoo. 
Whj',  did  you  see  him,  pray? 

Juan. 

Not  then,  but  now. 
As  painters  see  the  many  in  the  one. 
We  have  a  Gypsy  iu  Bedmar  whose  frame 
Nature  compacted  with  such  fine  selection, 
'Twould  yield  a  dozen  types:  all  Spanish  knights, 
From  him  who  slew  Rolando  at  the  pass 
Up  to  the  mighty  Cid ;  all  deities, 
Thronging  Olympus  in  fine  attitudes ; 
Or  all  hell's  heroes  whom  the  poet  saw 
Tremble  like  lions,  writhe  like  demigods. 

Host. 

Pause  not  yet,  Juan— more  hyperbole  ! 

Shoot  upward  still  and  flare  in  meteors 
Before  thou  sink  to  earth  in  dull  brown  fact. 

Blabco. 
Nay,  give  me  fact,  high  shootiug  suits  not  mc. 
I  never  stare  to  look  for  soaring  larks. 
Wliat  is  this  Gypsy  ? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  131 

Host. 

Chieftaiu  of  a  band, 
The  Moor's  allies,  whom  lull  a  mouth  ago 
Our  Diike  surprised  aud  brought  as  captives  home. 
He  needed  smiths,  and  doui)tless  the  brave  Moor 
lias  missed  some  useful  scouts  and  archers  too. 
Juan's  fantastic  pleasure  is  to  watch 
These  Gypsies  forging,  and  to  hold  discourse 
With  this  great  chief,  whom  he  transforms  at  will 
To  sage  or  warrior,  and  like  the  snu 
Plays  daily  at  fallacious  alchemy. 
Turns  sand  to  gold  aud  dewy  spider-webs 
To  myriad  rainbows.    Still  the  sand  is  sand. 
And  still  in  sober  shade  you  see  the  web. 
'Tis  so,  I'll  wager,  with  his  Gypsy  chief— 
'    A  piece  of  stalwart  cunning,  nothing  moie. 

Juan. 

No !    My  invention  had  been  all  too  poor 

To  frame  this  Zarca  as  I  saw  him  llrst. 

'Twas  when  they  stripped  him.     In  his  chieftain's  gear 

Amidst  his  men  he  seemed  a  royal  barb 

Followed  by  wild-maned  Andalusiau  colts. 

He  had  a  necklace  of  a  strange  device 

In  finest  gold  of  unknown  workmanship. 

But  delicate  as  Moorish,  fit  to  kiss 

Fedalma's  neck,  aud  play  in  sliadows  there. 

ne  wore  flue  mail,  a  rich-wrought  sword  and  belt, 

And  on  his  surcoat  black  a  broidered  torch, 

A  pine-branch  flaming,  grasped  by  two  dark  hands. 

But  when  they  stripped  him  of  his  ornaments 

It  was  the  baubles  lost  their  grace,  not  he. 

His  eyes,  his  mouth,  his  nostril,  all  inspired 

With  scorn  that  mastered  utterance  of  scorn, 

With  power  to  check  all  rage  until  it  turned 

To  ordered  force,  unleashed  on  chosen  prey — 

It  seemed  the  soul  within  him  made  his  limbs 

And  made  them  grand.    The  baubles  were  all  gone. 

He  stood  the  more  a  king,  when  bared  to  man. 

Blasoo. 

Maybe.    But  nakedness  is  bad  for  trade. 

And  is  not  decent.     Well-wrought  metal,  sir. 

Is  not  a  bauble.    Had  you  seen  the  camp, 

The  royal  camp  at  Velez  Malaga, 

Ponce  de  Leon  aud  the  other  dukes. 

The  king  himself  and  all  his  thousand  knights 

For  bodyguard,  'twould  not  have  left  you  breath 

To  praise  a  Gypsy  thus.    A  man's  a  man ; 

But  when  you  see  a  king,  you  see  the  work 

Of  many  thousand  men.    King  Ferdinand 

Bears  a  fine  presence,  and  hath  proper  limbs; 

But  what  though  he  were  shrunken  as  a  relic? 

You'd  see  the  gold  and  gems  that  cased  him  o'er, 

And  all  the  pages  round  him  in  brocade, 

And  all  the  lords,  themselves  a  sort  of  kings, 

20*  F* 


i22  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

Doing  him  reverence.    Tliat  strikes  nu  awe 
Into  a  common  man— eppecially 
A  judge  of  plate. 

Host. 

Failh,  very  wisely  said. 
Purge  thy  speech,  Jiian.     It.  is  o\Tr-fiill 
Of  this  game  Gyi)sy.    Praise  the  CJatliolic  King. 
And  come  now,  let  us  see  the  juggler's  skill. 


The  Pla'ja  Santiago. 

'Tis  daylight  still,  but  now  tlie  golden  cross 

Uplifted  by  the  angel  on  tlic  dome 

Slrauds  rayless  in  calm  color  clear-dellned 

Against  the  northern  blue;  from  turrets  high 

The  flitting  splendor  sinks  with  folded  wing 

Dark-hid  till  morning,  and  the  battlements 

Wear  soft  relenting  whiteness  mellowed  o'er 

By  summers  generous  and  winters  bland. 

KL)\y  in  the  east  the  distance  casts  its  veil 

And  gazes  with  a  deepening  earnestness. 

The  old  rain-fretted  mountains  in  their  robes 

Of  shadow-broken  gray  ;  the  rounded  hills 

Eeddened  with  blood  of  Titans,  whose  huge  limbs, 

Entombed  within,  feed  full  the  hardy  flesh 

Of  cactus  green  and  blue  broad-sworded  aloes; 

The  cypress  soaring  black  above  the  lines 

Of  white  court-walls;  the  jointed  sugar-canes 

Pale-golden  with  their  feathers  motionless 

In  the  warm  quiet: — all  thought-teaching  form 

Utters  itself  in  Arm  unshimmeriug  hues. 

For  the  great  rock  has  screened  the  westering  sun 

That  still  on  plains  beyond  streams  vaporous  gold 

Among  the  branches;  and  within  Bedmiir 

Has  come  the  time  of  sweet  serenity 

When  color  c^iows  unglittering,  and  the  soul 

Of  visible  things  shows  silent  happiness, 

As  that  of  lovers  trusting  though  apart. 

The  ripe-cheeked  fruits,  the  crimson-petalled  flowers; 

The  wingftd  life  that  pausing  seems  a  gem 

Cunningly  carven  on  the  dark  green  leaf; 

The  face  of  man  with  hues  supremely  blent 

To  difference  fine  as  of  a  voice  'mid  sounds: — 

Each  lovely  light-dipped  thii!g  seems  to  emerge 

Flushed  gravely  from  baptismal  sacrament. 

All  beauteous  existence  rests,  yet  wakes, 

Lies  still,  yet  conscious,  with  clear  open  ey€s 

And  gentle  breath  and  mild  sufTused  joy. 

'Tis  day,  hut  day  that  falls  like  melody 

Repeated  on  a  string  with  graver  tones — 

Tones  such  as  linger  in  a  li)ng  farewell. 

The  Pln^a  widens  in  the  passive  air — 
The  Plapa  Santiago,  where  the  church, 
A  mosque  converted,  shows  an  eyeless  face 
Red-checkered,  faded,  doing  jjonance  still— 


THE   SPANISH  GYPSY.  123 

Bearing  with  Moorish  arch  the  imnged  saint, 

Apostle,  baron,  Spanish  warrior, 

Whose  charger's  hoofs  trample  the  tnrbnncd  dead. 

Whose  banner  with  the  Cross,  the  bloody  sword 

Flashes  athwart  the  Moslem's  glazing  eye. 

And  mocks  his  trust  in  Allah  who  forsakes. 

Up  to  the  church  the  Plapa  gently  slopes. 

In  shape  most  like  the  pious  palmer's  shell. 

Girdled  with  low  white  houses ;  high  above 

Tower  the  strong  fortress  and  sharp-angled  Avail 

And  well-Haulted  castle  gate.     From  o'er  the  roofs:, 

And  from  the  shadowed  nutios  cool,  there  spreads 

The  breath  of  flowers  and  aromatic  leaves 

Soothing  the  sense  with  bliss  indefinite— 

A  baseless  hope,  a  glad  presentiment, 

That  curves  the  lip  more  sofily,  tills  the  eye 

With  more  indulgent  beam.     And  so  it  soothes, 

So  gently  sways  the  pulses  of  the  crowd 

Who  make  a  zone  about  the  central  spot 

Chosen  by  Roldan  for  his  theatre. 

Maids  with  arched  eyebrows,  delicate-pencilled,  dark, 

Fold  their  round  arms  below  the  kerchief  full ; 

Meu  shoulder  little  girls;  and  grandames  gray, 

But  muscular  still,  hold  babies  on  their  arms; 

While  mothers  keep  the  stout-legged  boys  in  front 

Against  their  skirts,  as  old  Greek  pictures  show 

The  Glorious  Mother  with  the  Boy  divine. 

Youths  keep  the  i)Iaces  for  themselves,  and  roll 

Large  lazy  eyes,  aud  call  recumbent  dogs 

(For  reasons  deep  behiw  the  reach  of  thought). 

The  old  men  cough  with  purpose,  wish  to  liint 

Wisdom  within  that  cheapens  jugglery, 

Maintain  a  neutral  air,  and  knit  their  brows 

In  observation.    None  are  quarrelsome, 

Noisy,  or  very  merry ;  for  their  blood 

Moves  slowly  into  fervor— they  rejoice 

Like  those  dark  birds  that  sweep  with  heavy  wing, 

Cheering  their  mates  with  melancholy  cries. 

But  now  the  gilded  balls  begin  to  play 

In  rhythmic  numbers,  ruled  by  practice  fine 

Of  eye  and  muscle :  all  the  juggler's  form 

Consents  harmonious  in  swift-gliding  change, 

Easily  forward  stretched  or  backward  bent 

With  lightest  step  and  movement  circular 

Round  a  fixed  point:  'tis  not  the  old  Roldan  now, 

The  dull,  hard,  weary,  miserable  man, 

The  soul  all  parched  to  languid  appetite 

And  memory  of  desire :  'tis  wondrous  force 

That  moves  in  combination  mnltiform 

Towards  conscious  ends:  'lis  Roldan  glorious, 

Holding  all  eyes  like  any  meteor. 

King  of  the  moment  save  when  Annibal 

Divides  the  scene  and  plays  the  comic  part. 

Gazing  with  blinking  glances  up  and  down 

Dancing  and  tlirowing  nought  and  catching  it, 

With  mimicry  as  merry  as  the  tasks 

Of  penance-working  shades  in  Tartarus. 


124  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

Pablo  stands  passive,  and  a  space  apart, 

Iloldint^  a  viol,  waiting  for  command. 

Mu.^ic  must  not  be  wa.'^ted,  l)ut  must  rise 

As  needed  climax:  and  tlie  audience 

Is  growing  with  late  comers.     Juan  now, 

And  the  familiar  lIosl,'with  Blasco  broad. 

Find  way  made  gladly  to  the  inmost  round 

Studded  with  heads.    Lorenzo  knits  the  crowd 

Into  one  family  by  sliowing  all 

Good-will  and  recognition.     Juan  casts 

His  large  and  rapid-measuring  glance  around ; 

But— with  faint  quivering,  transient  as  a  breath 

Shaking  a  flame — his  eyes  make  sudden  pause 

Where  by  the  jutting  angle  of  a  street 

Castle-ward  leading,  stands  a  female  form, 

A  kerchief  pale  sqimre-drooping  o'er  the  brow. 

About  her  shoulders  dim  brown  serge— in  garb 

Most  like  a  peasant  woman  from  the  vale, 

Who  might  have  lingered  after  marketing 

To  see  the  show.    What  thrill  mysterious, 

Kay-borne  from  orb  to  orb  of  conscious  eyes, 

The  swift  observing  sweep  of  Juan's  glance 

Arrests  an  instant,  then  with  prompting  fresh 

Diverts  it  lastingly?    He  turns  at  once 

To  watch  the  gilded  balls,  and  nod  and  smile 

At  little  round  Pepita,  blondest  maid 

In  all  Bedmar — Pepita,  fair  yet  flecked, 

Saucy  of  lip  and  nose,  of  hair  as  red 

As  breasts  of  robins  stejiping  on  the  snow — 

Who  stands  in  front  with  little  tapping  feet. 

And  baby-dimpled  hands  that  hide  enclosed 

Those  sleeping  crickets,  the  dark  castanets. 

But  soon  the  gilded  balls  have  ceased  to  play 

And  Annibal  is  leaping  through  the  hoops, 

That  turn  to  twelve,  meeting  him  as  he  flies 

In  the  swift  circle.    Shuddering  he  leaps. 

But  with  each  spring  flies  Bwift  and  swifter  still 

To  loud  and  louder  shouts,  while  the  great  hoops 

Are  changed  to  smaller.    Now  the  crowd  is  tired. 

The  motion  swift,  the  living  victim  urged, 

The  imminent  failure  and  rejjcated  scape 

Hurry  all  pulses  and  intoxicate 

With  subtle  wine  of  passion  many-mixt. 

'Tis  all  about  a  monkey  leaping  hard 

Till  near  to  gasping ;  but  it  serves  as  well 

As  the  great  circus  or  arena  dire, 

Where  these  are  lacking.    Roldan  cautiously 

Slackens  the  leaps  and  lays  the  hoops  to  rest, 

And  Annibal  retires  with  reeling  brain 

And  backward  stagger — pity,  he  could  not  smile  I 

Now  Roldau  spreads  his  carpet,  now  he  shows 

Strange  metamorphoses:  the  i)ebble  black 

Changes  to  whitest  egg  witliin  his  hand  ; 

A  staring  rabl>it,  with  retreating  ears, 

Is  swallowed  by  the  air  and  vanishes ; 

He  t&lls  men's  thoughts  about  the  shaken  dice, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  135 

Theii-  secret  choosings;  makes  the  white  beaus  pass 

With  causeless  act  sublime  fiom  cup  to  cup 

Tui'ued  empty  on  the  ground— diablerie 

That  pales  the  girls  and  puzzles  all  the  boys: 

These  tricks  are  samples,  hinting  to  the  town 

Koldan's  great  mastery.     He  tumbles  next. 

And  Annibal  is  called  to  mock  each  feat  * 

With  arduous  comicality  and  save 

By  rule  romantic  the  great  public  mind 

(And  Roldau's  body)  from  too  serious  strain. 

But  with  the  tumbling,  lest  the  feats  should  fail, 

And  so  need  veiling  in  a  haze  of  sound, 

Pablo  awakes  the  viol  and  the  bow — 

The  masculine  bow  that  draws  the  woman's  heart 

From  out  the  strings  and  makes  them  cry,  yearn,  plead. 

Tremble,  exult,  with  mystic  union 

Of  joy  acute  and  tender  suffering. 

To  play  the  viol  and  discreetly  mis 

Alternate  with  the  bow's  keen  biting  tones 

The  throb  responsive  to  the  finger's  touch. 

Was  rarest  skill  that  Pablo  half  had  caught 

From  an 'Old  blind  and  wandering  Catalan; 

The  Other  half  was  rather  heritage 

From  treasure  stored  by  generations  past 

lu  winding  chambers  of  receptive  sense. 

The  winged  sounds  exalt  the  thick-pressed  crowd 

With  a  new  pulse  in  common,  blending  all 

The  gazing  life  into  one  larger  soul 

With  dimly  widened  consciousness:  as  waves 

In  heightened  movement  tell  of  waves  far  oflT. 

And  the  light  changes;  westward  stnti<med  clouds. 

The  sun's  ranged  outposts,  luminous  message  spread, 

Rousing  quiescent  things  to  doflF  their  shade 

And  show  themselves  as  added  audience. 

Now  Pablo,  letting  fall  the  eager  bow. 

Solicits  softer  murmurs  from  the  strings, 

And  now  above  them  pours  a  wondrous  voice 

(Such  as  Greek  reapers  heard  in  Sicily) 

With  wounding  rapture  in  it,  like  love's  arrows; 

And  clear  upon  clear  air  as  colored  gems 

Dropped  in  a  crystal  cup  of  water  pure,  • 

Fu'l  words  of  sadness,  simple,  lyrical: 

Spring  comes  hither, 

BiiAs  the  rose ; 
Roses  wither. 
Sweet  spring  goes. 
Ojald,  would  sJie  carry  vie  1 

Sum/nier  soars — 

Wide-winged  day 
White  light  pours, 
Flies  aivay. 
Ojald,  would  he  carry  me  1 


126  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

Soft  winds  blow, 

Weiittvard  horn. 
Onward  go 

Toti'ard  the  moni. 
Ojald,  u'ojild  tli£y  carry  me  1 

A  Sioeet  birds  sinr; 

O^er  the  graves, 
Then  take  wing 
O'er  the  waves. 
Ojald,  wortld  they  carry  me  I 

When  the  voice  paused  and  left  the  viol'H  note 
To  plonrl  forsaken,  'twas  as  when  a  cloud 
Hiding  liic  sun,  makes  all  the  loaves  and  flowers 
Shiver.     But  when  with  measured  change  tlie  strings 
Had  taught  regret  now  longing,  clear  again, 
Welcome  as  hope  recovered,  flowed  the  voice, 

Warm  whispering  through  the  slender  olive  leaves 
Came  to  me  a  gentle  sound. 
Whispering  of  a  secret  found 

In  tJie  clear  sunshine  'mid  the  golden  sheaves: 

Said  it'was  sleeping  for  me  in  the  morn. 
Called  it  gladness,  called  it  joy, 
Dreio  me  on — "  Come  hither,  boy  " — 

To  tcherc  the  blue  wings  rested  on  the  corn. 

I  thought  the  gentle  sound  liad  lohispered  true — 
Thought  the  little  heaven  mine. 
Leaned  to  clutch  the  thing  divine. 

And  satv  the  blue  wings  melt  within  the  blue. 

The  long  notes  linger  on  the  trembling  air, 
With  subtle  penetration  enter  all 
The  myriad  corridors  of  tlie  passionate  soul, 
Message-like  spread,  and  answering  action  rouse. 
Not  angular  jigs  that  warm  the  chill)'  linilis 
In  hoary  northern  mists,  l)ut  action  curved 
To  soft  andante  strains  pitched  plaintively. 
Vibrations  sympathetic  stir  all  limbs: 
Old  men  live  backward  in  their  dancing  prime, 
And  move  in  memory ;  small  legs  and  arms 
With  pleasant  agitation  purposeless 
,Go  up  and  down  like  pretty  fruits  in  gales. 
All  long  in  common  for  the  expressive  act 
Yet  wait  for  it ;   as  in  the  oldeu  time 
Men  waited  for  the  bard  to  tell  their  thought. 
"The  dance!"  "the  dance!"  is  shouted  all  aromia. 
Now  Pablo  lifts  the  bow,  Pepita  now, 
Kendy  as  bird  that  sees  the  sprinkled  corn, 
When  Juan  nods  aud  smiles,  puts  forth  her  foot 
And  lilts  lier  arm  to  wake  the  castanets. 
Jnan  advances,  too,  from  out  the  ring 
And  bends  to  quit  his  lute ;  for  now  the  scene 
Is  empty;  Roldan  weary,  gathers  pence. 
Followed  by  Annibal  with  purse,  aud  stick. 
The  carpet  lies  a  colored  isle  uutrod. 
Inviting  feet:   "The  dance,  the  dance,"  resounds, 


THE   SPANISH  GYPSY.  127 

The  bow  entreats  with  slow  melodic  strain, 
And  all  the  air  with  expectation  yearns. 

Sudden,  with  gliding  motion  like  a  flame 

That  through  dim  vapor  makes  a  path  of  glory, 

A  figure  litlie,  all  white  and  safl'ron-robed. 

Flashed  right  across  the  circle,  and  now  stood 

With  ripened  arms  uplift  and  regal  head, 

Like  some  tall  flower  whose  dark  and  intense  heart 

Lies  half  within  a  tulip-tinted  cup. 

Jnan  stood  fixed  and  pale ;  Pepita  stepped 
Backward  witliin  the  ring:  the  voices  fell 
From  shouts  insistent  to  more  passive  tones 
Half  meaning  welcome,  half  astonishment. 
"Lady  Fedalma! — will  she  dance  for  ns?" 

But  she,  sole  swayed  by  Impulse  passionate. 

Feeling  all  life  was  music  and  all  eyes 

The  warming,  quickening  light  tliat  music  makes, 

Moved  as,  in  dance  religious,  Miriam, 

When  on  the  Red  Sea  shore  she  raised  her  voice 

And  led  the  chorus  of  the  people's  joy; 

Or  as  the  Trojan  maids  that  reverent  sang 

Watching  the  sorrow-crowned  Uecuba: 

Moved  in  slow  curves  voluminous,  gradual. 

Feeling  and  action  flowing  into  one, 

In  Eden's  natural  taintless  marriage-bond; 

Ardently  modest,  sensuously  pure, 

With  young  delight  that  wonders  at  itself 

And  throbs  as  innocent  as  opening  flowers, 

Knowing  not  comment — soilless,  beaulifnl. 

The  spirit  in  her  gravely  glowing  face 

With  sweet  community  informs  her  limbs, 

Filling  their  fine  gradation  with  the  breath 

Of  virgin  majesty;  as  full  vowelled  words 

Are  rrew  impregnate  with  the  mastcu's  thoihght. 

Even  tlie  chauce-sti'ayed  delicate  tendrils  blacky 

That  backward  'scajjo  from  out  her  wreathing  haif— » 

Even  the  pliant  folds  that  cling  transverse 

When  with  obliquely  soaring  bend  altera 

She  seems  a  goddess  quitting  earth  again — 

Gatlier  expression — a  soft  undertone 

And  resonance  exquisite  from  the  grand  chord 

Of  her  harmoniously- bodied  soul. 

At  first  a  reverential  silence  guards 
The  eager  senses  of  the  gazing  crowd: 
They  hold  their  breath,  -and  live  by  seeing  her. 
But  soon  the  admiring  tension  finds  relief- 
Sighs  of  delight,  applausive  murmurs  low. 
And  stirrings  gentle  as  of  carted  corn 
Or  seed-bent  grasses,  wlien  the  ocean's  breath 
Spreads  landward.     Even  Juan  is  impelled 
By  tlie  swift-travelling  movement:  fear  and  doubt 
G^ive  way  before  tlie  hurrying  energy; 
lie  takes  his  lute  and  strikes  in  fellowship, 
Filling  more  full  the  rill  of  melody 
Raised  ever  and  anon  to  clearest  flood 


128  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

I5y  Pablo's  voice,  that  dies  awny  too  soon, 
Like  tlie  sweet  blackbird's  fiaj;;mentaiy  chant, 
Yet  wakes  again,  with  varying  rise  and  fall, 
In  songs  that  seem  emergent  memories 
Prompting  brief  ntteraucc— little  cancions 
And  villaucicos,  Andahisia-born. 

Pahi.o  (sings). 
It  was  'in  tlic  prime 
Of  the  sweet  Upring-time. 
In  the  linneVs  throat 
Trembled  the  love-note, 
And  the  love-stirred  air 
Thrilled  the  blossoms  there. 
Little  shadoivs  danced 
Each  a  tiny  elf, 
,  Uappy  in  large  light 

And  the  thinnest  self. 

It  was  b^it  a  mimite 
In  a  far-off  Spring, 
But  each  gentle  thing, 

Swectlg-wvuing  linnet. 

Soft-thrilled  hawthorn-trcc, 
Happy  shadoimj  elf 
With  the  thinnest  self. 

Live  still  on  in  vie. 
O  the  sweet,  sweet  prime 
Of  the  past  Spring-time. 

And  still  the  light  is  changing:  high  above 
Float  soft  pink  clouds;  others  with  deeper  flush 
Stretch  like  flamingoes  bending  toward  the  south 
Comes  a  more  solemn  brilliance  o'er  the  sky, 
A  meaning  more  intense  upon  the  air — 
The  inspiration  of  the  dying  day. 
And  Juan  now,  when  Pablo's  notes  subside, 
Soothes  the  regretful  ear,  and  breaks  the  pause 
With  masculine  voice  in  deep  antiphouy. 

JcAN  (sings). 
Day  is  dying  !    Float,  0  song, 

Down  the  westward  river. 
Requiem  chanting  to  the  Day — 

Day,  the  mighty  Giver. 

Pierced  by  shafts  of  Time  he  bleeds. 

Melted  rubies  sending 
Throvgh  the.  river  and  the  skij. 

Earth  and  heaven  blending; 

All  the  hng-drawn  earthy  banks 
UX)  to  cloud-land  lifting  : 

Sloiv  between  them  drifts  the  swaiu 
^Twixt  two  heavens  drifting. 

Wings  half  open,  like  ajloic'r 

Inly  deeper  Jhishing, 
Xeck  and  breast  as  virgin''s  pure— 

Virgin  proudly  blushing. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY,  129 

Day  is  dying  !    Float,  0  swan, 

Down  the  ruby  river  ; 
Folloii;  ftony,  in  requiem 

To  the  mifjhty  Giver. 

The  exquisite  hour,  the  ardor  of  the  crowd, 

The  strains  more  plenteous,  and  the  gathering  niiglit 

Of  action  passionate  where  no  effort  is, 

But  selfs  poor  gates  open  to  rushing  power 

That  blends  the  inward  ebb  and  outward  vast — 

All  gathering  influences  culminate 

And  urge  Fedalma.    Earth  and  heaven  seem  one, 

Life  a  glad  trembling  on  the  outer  edge 

Of  unkuown  rapture.    Swifter  now  she  moves, 

Filling  the  measui'e  with  a  doable  beat 

And  widening  circle;  now  she  seems  to  glow 

With  more  declared  presence,  glorified. 

Circling,  she  lightly  bends  and  lifts  on  high 

The  multitudinous-sounding  tambourine, 

And  makes  it  ring  and  boom,  then  lifts  it  higher 

Stretching  her  left  arm  beauteous;  now  the  crowd 

Exultant  shouts,  forgetting  poverty 

In  the  rich  moment  of  possessing  her. 

But  sudden,  at  one  point,  the  exnltaut  throng 
Is  pushed  and  hustled,  and  then  thrust  apart: 
Something  approaches — something  cuts  the  ring 
Of  jubilant  idlers — startling  as  a  streak 
From  alien  wounds  across  the  blooming  flesh 
Of  careless  sporting  childhood.    'Tis  the  band 
Of  Gypsy  prisoners.    Soldiers  lead  the  van 
And  make  sparse  flanking  guard,  aloof  surveyed 
By  gallant  Lopez,  stringent  in  command. 
The  Gypsies  chained  in  couples,  all  save  one. 
Walk  in  dark  file  with  grand  bare  legs  and  arms 
And  savage  melancholy  in  their  eyes 
That  star-like  gleam  from  out  black  clouds  of  hair; 
Now  they  are  full  in  sight,  and  now  they  stretch 
Eight  to  the  centre  of  the  open  space. 
Fedalma  now,  with  gentle  wheeling  sweep 
Returning,  like  the  loveliest  of  the  Hours 
Strayed  from  her  sisters,  truant  lingering, 
Faces  again  the  centre,  swings  again 
The  uplifted  tambourine.  .  .  . 

When  lo!  with  sound 
Stupendous  throbbing,  solemn  as  a  voice 
Sent  by  the  invisible  choir  of  all  the  dead. 
Tolls  the  great  passing  bell  that  calls  to  prayer 
For  souls  departed:  at  the  mighty  beat 
It  seems  the  light  sinks  awe-struck— 'tis  the  note 
Of  the  sun's  burial;  speech  and  action  pause; 
Religious  silence  and  the  holy  sign 
Of  everlasting  memories  (the  sign 
Of  death  that  turned  to  more  difi"usive  life) 
Pass  o'er  the  Placa-     Little  children  gaze 
With  lips  apart,  and  feel  the  unknown  god ; 
And  the  most  men  and  women  pray.    Not  all. 
The  soldiers  pray ;  the  Gypsies  stand  unmoved 


130  TnE  SPANisn  gypsy. 

As  pagan  statues  with  proud  level  pjaze. 

I5ut  he  who  wears  a  solitary  chain 

Ileailing  the  lile,  has  turned  to  face  Fcdalnia. 

She  motionless,  with  arm  uplifted,  guards 

The  tambourine  aloft  (lest,  sudden-lowered, 

Its  trivial  jingle  mar  the  duteous  pause), 

Reveres  the  general  prayer,  but  prays  not,  stands 

With  level  glance  meeting  that  Gypsy's  eyes, 

That  seem  to  her  the  sadness  of  the  world 

Rebuking  her,  the  great  bell's  hidden  thought 

Now  lirst  unveiled — the  sorrows  unredeemed 

Of  races  outcast,  scorned,  and  wandering. 

Why  does  he  look  at  her?  why  she  at  him? 

As  if  the  meeting  light  between  their  eyes 

Made  permanent  union?    Uis  deep-knit  brow, 

Inflated  nostril,  scornful  lip  compressed, 

Seem  a  dark  hieroglyph  of  coming  fate 

Written  before  her.    Father  Isidor 

Had  terrible  eyes  and  was  her  enemy ; 

She  knew  it  and  dctied  him;  all  her  soul 

Rounded  and  hardened  in  its  separatencss 

When  they  encountered.    But  this  prisoner — 

This  Gypsy,  passing,  gazing  casually — 

Was  he  her  enemy  too?    She  stood  all  quelled, 

The  impetuous  joy  that  hurried  iu  her  veins 

Seemed  backward  rushing  turned  to  chillest  awe, 

Uneasy  wonder,  and  a  vague  self-doubt. 

The  minute  brief  stretched  measureless,  dream-filled 

By  a  dilated  new-fraught  consciousness. 

Now  it  was  gone ;  the  pious  murmur  ceased, 

The  Gypsies  all  moved  onward  at  command 

And  careless  noises  blent  confusedly. 

But  the  ring  closed  again,  and  many  ears 

Waited  for  Pablo's  music,  many  eyes 

Turned  towards  the  carpet:  it  lay  bare  and  dim, 

Twilight  was  there— the  bright  Fedalma  gone. 


A  Jtandsome  room  in  tJie  Castle.    On  a  table  a  rich  jewel-casket 

Siiva  had  doffed  his  mail  and  with  it  all 
The  heavier  harness  of  his  warlike  cares. 
He  had  not  seen  Fedalma ;  raiser-like 
He  hoarded  through  the  hour  a  costlier  joy 
By  longing  oft-repressed.    Now  it  was  earned; 
And  with  observance  wonted  he  would  send 
To  ask  admission.    Spanish  gentlemen 
Who  wooed  fair  dames  of  noble  ancestry 
Did  homage  with  ricli  tunics  and  slashed  sleeves 
And  outward-surging  linen's  costly  snow  ; 
With  broidcred  scarf  transverse,  and  rosary 
Handsomely  wrought  to  tit  high-blooded  prayer; 
So  hinting  in  how  deep  respect  they  held 
That  self  they  threw  before  their  lady's  feet. 
And  Silva — that  Fedalma's  rate  should  stand 
No  jot  below  the  highest,  that  her  love 
Might  seem  to  all  the  royal  gift  it  was — 
Turned  every  trifle  in  his  mien  and  garb 


TUE   SPANISH   GYPSY.  181 

To  scrnpnlous  langnage,  nttering  to  the  world 

That  since  she  loved  hhn  he  went  caieftilly, 

Bearing  a  thing  so  precious  in  his  hand. 

A  man  of  high-wrought  strain,  fastidious 

In  his  acceptance,  dreading  all  delight 

That  speedy  dies  and  turns  to  carrion : 

His  senses  much  exacting,  deep  instilled 

With  keen  imagination's  airy  needs; — 

Like  strong-limbed  monsters  studded  o'er  with  eyes, 

Their  hunger  checked  by  overwhelming  vision, 

Or  that  fierce  lion  in  symbolic  dream 

Snatched  from  the  ground  by  wings  and  new-endowed 

With  a  man's  thought-propelled  relenting  heart. 

Silva  was  both  the  lion  and  the  man ; 

First  hesitating  shrank,  then  fiercely  sprang. 

Or  having  sprung,  turned  pallid  at  his  deed 

And  loosed  the  prize,  paying  his  blood  for  n6ught. 

A  nature  half-tran-sformed.  With  qualities 

That  oft  bewrayed  each  other,  elements 

Not  blent  but  struggliug,  breeding  strange  effects. 

Passing  the  reckoiiiug  of  his  fricnd.s  or  foes. 

Haughty  and  generous,  grave  and  passionate; 

With  tidal  moments  of  devoutest  awe, 

Sinking  anon  to  farthest  ebb  of  doubt ; 

Deliberating  ever,  till  the  sting 

Of  a  recurrent  ardor  made  him  rush 

Right  against  reasons  that  himself  had  drilled 

And  marshalled  painfully.    A  spirit  framed 

Too  proudly  special  for  obedience, 

Too  subtly  pondering  for  mastery: 

Born  of  a  goddess  with  a  mortal  sire, 

Uoir  of  flesh-fettered,  weak  divinity,  % 

Doom-gifted  with  long  resonant  consciousness 

And  perilous  heightening  of  the  sentient  soul. 

But  look  less  curiously:  life  itself 

May  not  express  us  alt,  may  leave  the  worst 

And  the  best  too,  like  tunea  in  mechanism 

Never  awaked.    In  various  catalogues 

Objects  stand  variously.    Silva  stands 

As  a  young  Spaniard,  handsome,  noble,  brave. 

With  titles  many,  high  in  pedigree ; 

Or,  as  a  nature  quiveringly  poised 

In  reach  of  storms,  whose  qualities  may  turn 

To  murdered  virtues  that  still  walk  as  ghosts 

Within  the  shuddering  soul  and  shriek  remorse  ; 

Or,  as  a  lover.  ...  In  the  screening  time 

Of  purple  blossoms,  when  the  petals  crowd 

And  softly  crush  like  cherub  cheeks  in  heaven. 

Who  thinks  of  greenly  withered  fruit  and  worms? 

O  the  warm  southern  spring  is  beauteous ! 

And  in  love's  spring  all  good  seems  possible: 

No  threats,  all  promise,  brooklets  ripple  full 

And  bathe  the  rushes,  vicious  crawling  things 

Are  pretty  eggs,  the  sun  shines  graciously 

And  parches  not,  the  silent  rain  beats  warm 

As  childhood's  kisses,  days  are  young  and  grow. 

And  earth  seems  In  its  sweet  beginning  time 


132  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

Fresh  made  for  two  who  live  in  Paradise. 

Silva  is  in  love's  spviiip;,  its  freshness  breathed 

Within  his  soul  aloiij;  the  dusty  ways 

While  marching  homeward;  'tis  around  him  now 

As  in  a  garden  fenced  in  for  delight, — 

And  he  may  seek  delight.     Smiling  he  lifts 

A  whi.stle  from  his  bell,  but  lets  it  fall 

Ere  it  has  reached  his  lips,  jarred  by  the  sound 

Of  ushers'  knocking,  and  a  voice  that  craves 

Admissiou  for  the  Prior  of  San  Domiugo. 

Pbioe  {enkring). 

Yon  look  perturbed,  my  son.    I  thrust  myself 
Between  you  and  some  beckoning  intent 
That  wears  a  face  more  smiling  tlian  my  own. 

Don  Sii.va. 

Father,  enough  that  yon  are  here.    I  wait, 

As  always,  your  commands— nay,  should  have  sought 

An  early  audience. 

Prior. 

To  give,  I  trust. 
Good  reasons  for  your  change  of  policy? 

Don  Silva. 

Strong  reasons,  father. 

Priob. 

Ay,  but  arc  they  good? 
I  have  known  reasons  strong,  but  strongly  evil. 

Don  Silva. 

'Tis  possible.    I  but  deliver  mine 

To  your  strict  judgment.     Late  despatches  sent 

With  urgence  by  the  Count  of  Bavien, 

No  hint  on  my  part  prompting,  with  besides 

The  testified  concurrence  of  the  king 

And  our  Grand  Master,  have  made  peremptory 

The  course  which  else  had  been  but  rational. 

Without  the  forces  furnished  by  allies 

The  siege  of  Quadix  would  be  madness.    More, 

El  Zagal  has  his  eyes  upon  Bedmar: 

Let  him  attempt  it:  in  three  weeks  from  hence 

The  Master  and  the  Lord  of  Aguilar 

Will  bring  their  forces.    We  shall  catch  the  Moors, 

The  last  gleaned  clusters  of  their  bravest  men, 

As  in  a  trap.    You  have  my  reasons,  father. 

Priou. 

And  they  sound  well.    But  free-tongued  rumor  adds 

A  pregnant  sui)plement— in  substance  this: 

That  inclination  snatches  arguments 

To  make  indulgence  seem  judicious  choice; 

That  you,  commanding  in  God's  Holy  War, 

Lift  pr.ayers  to  Satan  to  retard  the  fight 

And  give  you  time  for  feasting— wait  a  siege. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  TdS 

Call  daring  enterprise  impossible, 
Because  yon'd  marry !    You,  a  Spanish  duke, 
Christ's  general,  would  marry  like  a  clown, 
Who,  selling  fodder  dearer  for  the  war, 
Is  all  the  merrier  ;  nay,  like  the  brutes, 
Who  know  no  awe  to  check  their  appetite. 
Coupling  'mid  heaps  of  slain,  while  still  in  front 
The  battle  rages. 

Don  Silva. 

Rumor  on  your  lips 


Is  eloquent,  father. 


Pkiok, 
la  she  true? 

Don  Silva. 

Perhaps. 
I  seek  to  justify  my  public  acts 
And  not  my  private  joy.     Before  the  world 
Enough  if  I  am  faithful  in  command, 
Betray  not  by  my  deeds,  swerve  from  no  task 
My  knightly  vows  constrain  me  to :  herein 
I  ask  all  men  to  test  me. 

Pbior. 

Knightly  vows  ? 
Is  it  by  their  constraint  that  you  must  marry  ? 

Don  Silva. 

Marriage  is  not  a  breach  of  them.    I  use 
A  sanctioned  liberty.  .  .  .  your  pardon,  father, 
I  need  not  teach  you  what  the  Church  decrees. 
But  facts  may  weaken  texts,  and  so  dry  up 
The  fount  of  eloquence.    The  Church  relaxed 
Our  Order's  rule  before  I  took  the  vows. 

PlSlOK. 

Ignoble  liberty !  you  snatch  your  rule 

From  what  God  tolerates,  not  what  he  loves  ? — 

Inquire  what  lowest  offering  may  suflSce, 

Clicapen  it  meanly  to  an  obolus, 

Buy,  and  then  count  the  coin  left  in  your  purse 

For  your  debauch? — Measure  obedience 

By  scantest  powers  of  brethren  whose  frail  flesh 

Our  Iloly  Church  indulges?— Ask  great  Law, 

The  rightful  Sovereign  of  the  human  soul, 

For  what  it  pardons,  not  what  it  commands  ? 

O  fallen  knighthood,  penitent  of  high  vows. 

Asking  a  charter  to  degrade  itself! 

Such  poor  apology  of  rules  relaxed 

Blunts  not  suspicion  of  that  doubleness 

Your  enemies  tax  you  with. 

Don  Silva. 

Oh,  for  the  rest. 
Conscience  is  harder  than  our  enemies. 


184  THE  si'ANisn  gypsy. 

Knows  more,  accuses  with  more  nicety, 
Nor  needs  to  (juc^tion  Kir.nor  if  we  full 
Below  the  perfect  model  of  our  thou;,'lit. 
I  fear  no  outward  arbiter.— You  Buiile  f 

Prior. 

Ay,  at  the  contrast  'twixt  your  jiortraiturc 

And  the  true  imaj^e  of  your  conscience,  shown 

As  now  I  sec  it  in  your  acts.    I  see 

A  drunken  sentinel  who  gives  alarm 

At  his  own  shadow,  but  wheu  scalers  snatch 

Ilia  weapon  from  his  hand  smiles  idiot-like 

At  games  he's  dreaming  of. 

Don  SiLVA. 

A  parable ! 
The  husk  is  rough— holds  something  bitter,  doubtless. , 

Prior. 

Oh,  the  husk  gapes  with  meaning  over-ripe. 
You  Ijoast  a  conscience  that  controls  your  deeds, 
Watches  your  knightly  armor,  guards  your  rank 
From  stain  of  treachery — you,  helpless  slave, 
Whose  will  lies  nerveless  iu  the  clutch  of  lust — 
Of  blind  mad  passion — passion  itself  most  helpless, 
Storm-driven,  lilic  the  monsters  of  the  sea. 
O  famous  conscieuce! 

Don  Silva. 

Pause  there '.    Leave  unsaid 
Aught  that  will  match  that  text.    More  woi-o  too  much, 
Even  from  holy  lips.     I  own  no  love 
I?ut  such  as  guards  my  honor,  since  it  guards 
Hers  whom  I  love !    I  suffer  no  foul  words 
To  stain  the  gift  1  lay  before  her  feet ; 
And,  being  hers,  my  honor  is  more  safe. 

Prior. 

Versemakers'  talk  I  fit  for  a  world  of  rhymes, 

Where  facts  are  feigned  to  tickle  idle  ears. 

Where  good  and  evil  play  at  tournament 

And  end  in  amity— a  world  of  lies — 

A  carnival  of  words  where  every  year 

Stale  falsehoods  serve  fresh  men.     Y'our  honor  safe? 

What  honor  has  a  man  with  double  bonds? 

Honor  is  shifting  as  the  shadows  are 

To  souls  that  turn  their  passions  into  laws. 

A  Christian  knight  who  weds  an  infidel  .  .  . 

Don  Silva  (fiercely). 

An  infidel; 

Prior 

Jlay  one  day  spurn  (he  Cross, 
And  call  that  honor! — one  day  find  his  sword 
Stained  with  his  brother's  blood,  and  call  that  honor! 
Apostates'  honor  ?— harlots'  chastity! 
lienegades'  faithliilucss ?— Iscariot's ! 


THE  SPANISH  GYPS/.  135 


Don  SiLVA. 

Strong  words  and  biiruiiig ;  but  Ihey  scorch  not  nie. 

Fedalina  is  a  daughter  of  the  Church — 

lias  been  baptized  and  nurtured  in  the  faith. 

Peioe. 

Ay,  as  a  thousand  Jewesses,  who  yet 
Are  brides  of  Satan  in  a  robe  of  flames. 

Don  Silva. 

Fcdalma  is  no  Jewess,  bears  no  marks 
That  tell  of  Hebrew  blood. 

Peiok. 

She  bears  the  marks 
Of  races  unbaptized,  that  never  bowed 
Before  the  holy  signs,  were  never  moved 
By  stirrings  of  the  sacramental  gifts. 

Don  Silva  {scwnfully). 

Holy  accusers  practise  palmistry, 

And,  other  witness  lacking,  read  the  skiu. 

Pkior. 

I  read  a  record  deeper  than  the  skin. 

What  I    Shall  the  trick  of  nostrils  and  of  lips 

Descend  through  generations,  and  the  soul 

That  moves  within  onr  frame  like  God  in  worlds-= 

Convulsing,  urging,  melting,  withering — 

Impriut  no  record,  leave  no  documents, 

Of  her  great  history  ?    Shall  men  bequeath 

The  nancies  of  their  palate  to  their  sons, 

And  sliall  the  shudder  of  restraining  awe. 

The  slow-wept  tears  of  contrite  memory. 

Faith's  prayerful  labor,  and  the  food  divine 

Of  fasts  ecstatic— shall  these  pass  away 

Like  wind  upon  the  waters,  tracklessly? 

Shall  the  mere  curl  of  eyelashes  remain. 

And  god-enshrining  symbols  leave  no  trace 

Of  tremors  reverent? — That  maiden's  blood 

Is  as  unchristian  as  the  leopard's. 

Don  Sxlva. 

Say, 
Unchristian  as  the  Blessed  Virgin's  blood 
Before  the  angel  spoke  the  word,  "All  hail !" 

Pkiou  (smiling  bitterly.) 

Said  I  not  truly  ?    See,  your  passion  weaves 
Already  blasphemies ! 

Don  Sii.va. 

'Tis  you  provoke  them. 

Pkiok. 

1  strive,  as  still  the  Holy  Spirit  strives. 

To  move  the  will  perverse.    But,  failing  this. 


136  THE  SPANISU  GYPSY. 

God  commands  other  means  to  save  our  blood, 

To  save  Castilian  glory — nay,  to  save 

The  name  of  Christ  from  blot  of  traitorous  deeds. 

Don  Sii.VA. 

Of  traitorous  deeds  !    Age,  kindred,  and  your  cowl, 

Give  an  ignoble  license  to  your  tongue. 

As  for  your  tlireats,  fiillil  them  at  your  peril. 

"Pis  you,  not  I,  will  gibbet  our  great  name 

To  rot  in  infamy.    If  I  am  strong 

In  patience  now,  trust  me,  I  can  be  strong 

Then  in  defiance. 

Pkioe. 

Miserable  man ! 
Your  strength  will  turn  to  anguish,  like  the  strength 
Of  fallen  angels.    Can  you  change  your  blood  ? 
You  are  a  Christian,  with  the  Christian  awe 
In  every  vein.    A  Spanish  noble,  born 
To  serve  your  people  and  your  people's  faith. 
Strong,  are  you?    Turn  your  back  upon  the  Cross- 
Its  shadow  is  before  you.    Leave  your  place: 
Quit  the  great  ranks  of  knighthood :  you  will  walk 
Forever  with  a  tortured  double  self, 
A  self  that  will  be  hungry  while  you  feast, 
Will  blush  with  shame  while  you  are  glorified. 
Will  feel  the  ache  and  chill  of  desolation, 
Even  in  the  very  bosom  of  your  love. 
Mate  yourself  with  this  woman,  fit  for  what? 
To  make  the  sport  of  Moorish  palaces, 
A  lewd  Herodias  .  .  . 

Don  Silva. 

Stop!  uo  other  man. 
Priest  though  he  were,  had  had  his  throat  left  free 
For  passage  of  those  words.    I  would  have  clutched 
His  serpent's  neck,  and  flung  him  out  to  hell ! 
A  monk  must  needs  defile  the  name  of  love: 
He  knows  it  but  as  tempting  devils  paint  it. 
You  think  to  scare  my  love  from  its  resolve 
With  arbitrary  consequences,  strained 
By  rancorous  effort  from  the  thinnest  motes 
Of  possibility?— cite  hideous  lists 
Of  sins  irrelevant,  to  frighten  me 
With  bugbears'  names,  as  women  fright  a  chili? 
Poor  pallid  wisdom,  taught  by  inference 
From  blood-drained  life,  where  phantom  terrors  rule, 
And  all  achievement  is  to  leave  undone ! 
Paint  the  day  dark,  make  sirnshine  cold  to  me, 
Abolish  the  earth's  fairness,  prove  it  all 
A  fiction  of  my  eyes— then,  after  that. 
Profane  Fedalma. 

Prior. 

O  there  is  no  need : 
She  has  profaned  herself.    Go,  raving  man. 
And  see  her  dancing  now.    Go,  see  your  bride 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  137 

Flanutiiig  lier  beauties  grossly  in  tlie  gaze 
Of  vulgar  idlers— eking  out  the  show 
Made  in  the  Plafa  by  a  mountebank. 
I  hinder  you  no  farther. 

Don  Silva. 

It  is  false ! 

Pbiob. 
Go,  prove  it  false,  then. 

[Father  Isidor 
Drew  on  his  cowl  and  turned  away.    The  face 
That  fla.shed  anathemas,  in  swift  eclipse 
Seemed  Silva's  vanished  confidence.    In  haste 
lie  rushed  uusignallcd  through  the  corridor 
To  where  the  Duchess  once,  Fedalma  now, 
Had  residence  retired  from  din  of  arms — 
Knocked,  opened,  found  all  empty — said 
With  muffled  voice,  "  Fedalma  1"— called  more  loud. 
More  oft  on  Inez,  the  old  trusted  nurse — 
Then  searched  the  terrace-garden,  calling  still. 
But  heard  no  answering  sound,  and  saw  no  face 
Save  painted  faces  staring  all  unmoved 
By  agitated  tones.    He  hurried  back, 
Giving  half-conscious  orders  as  he  went 
To  page  and  usher,  that  Ihcy  straight  should  seek 
Lady  Fedalma  ;  then  with  stinging  shame 
Wished  himself  silent ;  reached  again  the  room 
Where  still  the  Father's  menace  seemed  to  hang 
Thickening  the  air ;  snatched  cloak  and  plumC-d  hat, 
And  grasped,  not  knowing  why,  his  poniard's  hill ; 
Then  checked  himself  and  said :— ] 

If  he  spoke  trutli  I 
To  know  were  wound  enough — to  see  the  truth 
Were  Are  upon  the  wound.    It  must  be  false! 
His  hatred  saw  amiss,  or  snatched  mistake 
In  other  men's  report.    I  am  a  fool ! 
But  where  can  she  be  gone?  gone  secretly? 
And  in  my  absence?    Oh,  she  meant  no  wrong  ! 
I  am  a  fool ! — But  where  can  she  be  gone  ? 
With  only  Inez?    Oh,  she  meant  no  wrong! 
I  swear  she  never  meant  it.    There's  no  wrong 
But  she  would  make  it  momentary  right 
By  innocence  in  doing  it.  .  .  . 

And  yet, 
What  Is  our  certainty  ?    Why,  knowing  all 
That  is  not  secret.    Mighty  confidence ! 
One  pulse  of  Time  makes  the  base  hollow — sends 
The  towering  certainty  we  built  so  high 
Toppling  in  fragments  meaningless.    What  is— 
What  will  be— must  be — pooh !  they  wait  the  key 
Of  that  which  is  not  yet ;  all  other  keys 
Are  made  of  our  conjectures,  take  their  sense 
From  humors  fooled  by  hope,  or  by  despair. 
Know  what  is  good  ?    O  God,  we  know  not  yet 
21  G 


lUy  THE  SPANISH  OYPSY. 

If  bliss  itself  is  not  yonng  misery 
With  fangs  swift  growing.  .  .  . 

But  some  outward  harm 
May  even  now  be  hurting,  grieving  lier. 
Oil  1  I  must  search— face  shame— if  shame  be  there. 
Here,  Perez!  hasten  to  Don  Alvar— tell  him 
Lady  Fetlalma  must  be  sought— is  lost— 
Has  met,  I  fear,  some  mischance.    lie  must  send 
Towards  divers  points.    I  go  myself  to  seek 
First  iu  the  town.  .  .  . 

[As  Percy,  opod  the  door, 
Then  moved  aside  for  passage  of  the  Duke, 
Fedalma  entered,  cast  away  the  cloud 
Of  serge  and  linen,  and  outbeaming  bright. 
Advanced  a  pace  towards  Silva— but  then  paused, 
For  he  had  started  and  retreated ;  she, 
Quick  and  responsive  as  the  subtle  air 
To  change  in  him,  divined  that  she  must  wait 
Until  they  were  alone:   they  stood  and  looked. 
Within  the  Duke  M-as  struggling  confluence 
Of  feelings  manifold — pride,  anger,  dread. 
Meeting  in  stormy  rush  with  sense  secure 
That  she  was  present,  with  the  new-stilled  thirst 
Of  gazing  love,  with  trust  inevitable 
As  in  beneficent  virtues  of  the  light 
And  all  earth's  sweetness,  that  Fedalma's  soul 
Was  free  from  blemishing  purpose.    Yet  proud  wrath 
Leaped  in  dark  flood  above  the  purer  stream 
That  strove  to  drown  it:  Anger  seeks  its  prey — 
Something  to  tear  with  sharp-edged  tooth  and  claw. 
Likes  not  to  go  oft'  hungry,  leaving  Love 
To  feast  on  milk  and  honeycomb  at  will. 
Silva's  heart  said,  he  must  be  happy  soon, 
She  being  there ;    but  to  be  happy —first 
lie  must  be  angry,  having  cause.    Yet  love 
Shot  like  a  stifled  cry  of  tenderness 
All  through  the  harshness  he  would  faiu  have  given 
To  the  dear  word,] 

Don   Sii.va. 
Fedalma ! 

Fedai.ma. 

O  my  lord  ! 
You  are  come  back,  and  I  was  wandering ! 

Don  Sii.va  {coldly,  but  loilh  suppressed  agitation). 
You  meant  I  should  be  ignorant, 
Fedauvia. 

Oh  no, 
I  should  have  told  you  after— not  before, 
Lest  you  should  hinder  me. 

Don   Sii.va. 

Then  my  known  wish 
Can  make  no  hiuderance  ? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  139 

Fedalma  (.archly). 

That  depends 
Ou  what  the  wish  may  be.    You  wished  me  oucc 
Not  to  nucage  the  birds.    I  meaut  to  obey: 
But  in  a  moment  something— something  stronger, 
Forced  me  to  let  tliem  out.    It  did  no  harm. 
They  all  came  back  again— the  eilly  birds ! 
I  told  yon,  after. 

Don  Silva  {with  haughty  coldness). 

Will  you  tell  me  now 
What  was  the  prompting  stronger  than  my  wish 
That  made  you  wander? 

Fkdalma  {advancing  a  step  towards  him,  with  a  siidden  look  of  anxiety). 

Are  you  angry? 

Don  Silva  {smiling  bitterly). 

Angry  ? 
A  man  deep-wounded  may  feel  too  much  pain 
To  feel  much  anger. 

Fkdalma  {still  more  anxiously). 
You— deep-wounded  ? 

Don  Silva. 

Yes! 

Have  I  not  made  your  place  and  dignity 
The  very  heart  of  my  ambition  ?    You— 
No  enemy  could  do  it — you  alone 
Can  strike  it  mortally. 

Feual.ma. 

Nay,  S'lva,  nay. 
Has  some  one  told  you  false?    I  only  wont 
To  see  the  world  with  Inez — see  the  town. 
The  people,  everything.     It  was  no  barm. 
I  did  not  mean  to  dance:   it  happened  so 
At  last  .  .  . 

Don  Silva. 

O  God,  it's  true  then !— true  that  you, 
A  maiden  nurtured  as  rare  flowers  are, 
The  very  air  of  heaven  sifted  fine 
Lest  any  mote  should  mar  your  purity, 
Have  flung  yourself  out  on  the  dusty  way 
For  common  eyes  to  see  your  beauty  soiled ! 
You  own  it  true— you  danced  upon  the  Plafa? 

Fr.nALMA  {proudly). 

Yes,  it  is  true.    I  was  not  wrong  to  dance. 
The  air  was  filled  with  music,  with  a  song 
That  seemed  the  voice  of  the  sweet  eventide — 
The  glowing  light  entering  through  eye  and  car — 
That  seemed  our  love- mine,  yours— they  arc  but  one— 


140  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

Tieinhling  Uirough  nil  my  limbs,  as  furvcut  woi'ds 
Tremble  within  my  poul  and  must  l)e  epokeu. 
And  all  the  pcoiile  felt  a  common  joy 
And  shouted  for  the  dance.    A  brightness  soft 
As  of  the  augels  inoviuj?  down  to  see 
Illumiued  the  broad  space.    The  joy,  the  life 
Around,  within  me,  were  one  heaven :   I  lougcd 
To  blend  them  visibly :   I  longed  to  dance 
Before  the  i)cople— be  as  mounting  flamo 
To  all  that  burned  within  them!    Nay,  I  danced; 
There  was  no  longing:    I  but  did  the  deed 
Being  moved  to  do  it. 

(.1»  Fbualma  spcak%  she  and  Don  Silva  are  qradualhj  drawn  nearer  to 

each  other.) 

Oh  1  I  seemed  new-waked 
To  life  in  unison  with  a  multitude — 
Feeling  my  soul  upborne  by  all  their  souls, 
Floating  within  their  gladness !    Soon  I  lost 
All  sense  of  separateness:   Fedalma  died 
As  a  star  dies,  and  melts  into  the  light. 
I  was  not,  but  joy  was,  and  love  and  triumph. 
Nay,  my  dear  lord,  I  never  could  do  ought 
But  I  must  feel  you  present.    And  once  done, 
Why,  you  must  love  it  better  than  your  wish. 
1  pray  you,  say  so— say,  it  was  not  wrong  I 

{While  Fedalma  has  bnen  making  this  last  appeal,  they  have  gradually  come 
close  together,  and  at  last  embrace.) 

Don  Su.va  (holding  her  ha7ids). 

Dangerous  rebel !  if  the  world  without 

Were  pure  as  that  within  .  .  .  but  'tis  a  book 

Wherein  you  only  read  the  poesy 

And  miss  all  wicked  meanings.     Hence  the  need 

For  trust— obedience — call  it  what  you  will — 

Towards  him  whose  life  will  be  your  guard— towards  me 

Who  now  am  soon  to  be  your  husband. 

Fedalma. 

Yes! 
That  very  thing  that  when  I  am  your  wife 
I  shall  be  something  difl'erent,— shall  be 
I  know  not  what,  a  Duchess  with  new  thoughts— 
For  nobles  never  think  like  common  men. 
Nor  wives  like  maidens  (Oh,  j-ou  wot  not  yet 
Dow  much  I  note,  with  all  my  ignorance) — 
That  very  thing  has  made  me  more  resolve 
To  have  my  will  before  I  am  your  wife. 
How  can  the  Duchess  ever  satisfy 
Fedalma's  unwed  eyes?  and  so  to-day 
I  scolded  Inez  till  she  cried  and  went. 

Don    Sii.va. 

It  was  a  guilty  weakness :   she  knows  well 
That  since  you  pleaded  to  be  left  more  free 


THE  BPANISn  GYrSY.  141 

From  tedious  tendance  and  control  of  dames 
Whose  rank  matched  better  with  yonr  destiny, 
Ilei-  charge— my  trust — was  weightier. 

Fepalma. 

Nay,  my  lord, 
Yon  must  not  blame  her,  dear  old  nurse.    She  cried. 
Why,  you  would  have  consented  too,  at  last. 
I  said  such  things !    I  was  resolved  to  go, 
And  see  the  streets,  the  shops,  the  men  at  work, 
The  women,  little  children— everything, 
Just  as  it  is  when  nobody  looks  on. 
And  I  have  done  it!    We  were  out  four  hours. 
I  feel  so  wise. 

Don  Silva. 
Had  you  but  seen  the  town, 
You  innocent  naughtiness,  not  shown  yourself— 
Sliown  yourself  dancing- you  bewilder  me! — 
Frustrate  my  judgment  wiih  strange  uegativea 
That  seem  like  poverty,  and  yet  are  wealth 
In  precious  womanliness,  beyond  the  dower 
Of  other  women:   wealth  in  virgin  gold, 
Outweighing  all  their  i)etty  currency. 
You  daring  modesty !    You  shrink  no  more 
From  gazing  men  than  from  the  gazing  flowers 
That,  dreaming  sunshine,  open  as  you  pass. 

Fedalma. 

No,  I  should  like  the  world  to  look  at  me 

With  eyes  of  love  that  make  a  second  day. 

I  think  your  eyes  would  keep  the  life  in  me 

Though  I  had  nought  to  feed  on  else.    Their  blue 

Is  better  than  the  heavens'— holds  more  love 

For  me,  Fedalma— is  a  little  heaven 

For  this  one  little  world  that  looks  up  now. 

Don  Silva. 

O  precious  little  world !  you  make  the  heaven 
As  the  earth  makes  the  sky.    But,  dear,  all  eyes. 
Though  looking  even  ou  yon,  have  not  a  glance 
That  cherishes  .  .  .  ■ 

FKDAUfA. 

Ah  no,  I  meant  to  tell  you — 
Tell  how  my  dancing  ended  with  a  pang. 
There  came  a  man,  one  among  many  more, 
But  he  came  first,  with  iron  on  his  liml)s. 
And  when  the  bell  tolled,  and  the  people  prayed, 
And  I  stood  pausing— then  he  looked  at  me. 
O  Silva,  such  a  man !    I  thought  he  rose 
From  the  dark  jilace  of  long-imprisoned  souls. 
To  say  that  Christ  had  never  come  to  them. 
It  was  a  look  to  shame  a  seraph's  joy. 
And  make  him  sad  in  heaven.    It  found  me  there- 
Seemed  to  have  travelled  far  to  lind  me  there 
And  grasp  me— claim  this  festaliife  of  mine 


142  THE  SPANKH  GYPSY. 

Ab  heritage  of  sorrow,  chill  my  blood 

With  the  cold  iron  of  sonic  nnknowii  bonds. 

The  ^'huhii'ss  hurrying  full  wilhiu  my  vciiiH 

Was  sudden  frozen,  ;uid  I  danced  no  more. 

But  seeing  yon  let  loose  the  stream  of  joy, 

Mingling  the  present  with  the  sweetest  past. 

Yet,  Silva,  still  I  sec  him.     Who  is  he? 

Who  are  those  prisoners  with  him?    Are  they  Moors 7 

Don  Sii.va. 

No,  they  are  Gypsies,  strong  and  cunning  knaves, 
A  double  gain  to  us  by  the  Moors'  loss: 
The  man  you  mean— their  chief— is  an  ally 
The  infidel  will  miss.     His  look  might  chase 
A  herd  of  monks,  and  make  them  fly  more  swift 
Than  from  St.  Jerome's  lion.    Sncli  vague  fear, 
Such  bird-like  tremors  when  that  savage  glance 
Turned  full  upon  you  in  your  height  of  joy 
Was  natural,  was  not  worth  emphasis. 
Forget  it,  dear.    This  hour  is  worth  whole  days 
When  we  arc  sundered.    Danger  urges  us 
To  quick  resolve. 

Fedalma. 

What  danger?  what  resolve? 
I  never  felt  chill  shadow  in  ray  heart 
Until  this  sunset. 

Don  Sii.va. 

A  dark  enmity 
Plots  how  to  sever  us.    And  our  defence 
Is  speedy  marriage,  secretly  achieved. 
Then  publicly  declared.    Beseech  you,  dear, 
Grant  me  this  confidence;  do  my  will  in  this. 
Trusting  the  reasons  why  I  overset 
All  my  own  airy  building  raised  so  high 
Of  i)ridal  honors,  marking  when  you  step 
From  off  your  maiden  throne  to  come  to  me 
And  bear  the  yoke  of  love.    There  is  great  need. 
I  hastened  home,  carrying  this  prayer  to  you 
Within  my  heart.    The  bishop  is  my  friend, 
Furthers  our  marriage,  holds  in  enmity — 
Some  whom  we  love  not  and  who  love  not  us. 
By  this  night's  moon  our  priest  will  be  despatched 
From  Jaon.    I  shall  march  an  escort  strong 
To  meet  him.    Ere  a  second  sun  from  this 
Has  risen — you  consenting— we  may  wed. 

Fedalma. 
None  knowing  that  we  wed  ? 

Don  Silva. 

Beforehand  none 
Save  liiez  and  Don  Alvar.    But  the  vows 
Once  safely  binding  us,  my  household  all 
Shall  know  you  as  their  Duchess.    No  man  then 
Can  aim  a  blow  at  you  but  through  my  breast, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  143 

And  whnt  stains  yon  must  stain  our  ancient  name  ; 

If  any  liate  yon  I  will  take  his  hate, 

And  wear  it  as  a  glove  upon  my  helm: 

Nay,  God  himself  will  never  have  the  power 

To  strike  you  solely  and  leave  me  unhurt, 

He  havin;^  made  ns  one.    Now  put  the  seal 

Of  yonr  dear  lii)s  on  that. 

Fedalma. 

A  solemn  kiss? — 
Such  as  I  gave  yon  when  you  came  that  day 
From  Cordova,  when  first  we  said  we  loved? 
When  you  had  left  the  ladies  of  the  Court 
For  thirst  to  see  me ;  and  you  told  me  so. 
And  then  I  seemed  to  know  why  I  had  lived. 
I  never  knew  before.     A  kiss  like  that? 

Don  Sii,va, 

Yes,  yes,  you  face  divine !    When  was  our  kiss 
Like  any  other? 

Fedalma. 

Nay,  I  cannot  tell 

What  other  kisses  are.    But  that  one  kiss 

Kemaius  upon  my  lips.    The  angels,  spirits. 

Creatures  with  finer  sense,  may  see  it  there. 

And  now  another  kiss  that  will  not  die. 

Saying,  To-morrow  I  shall  be  your  wife  I 
(They  kiss,  and  pause  a  moment,  looking  earncsthj  in  each  other's  eyes.    Th&n 
FISDAI..MA,  breaking  aioay  from  Don  Silva,  stands  at  a  little  distance  from 
him  with  a  look  of  roguish  delight.) 

Now  I  am  glad  I  saw  the  town  to-day 

Before  I  am  a  Duchess — glad  I  gave 

This  poor  Fedalma  all  her  wish.    For  once. 

Long  years  ago,  I  cried  when  Iilez  said, 

"You  are  no  more  a  little  girl ;"  I  grieved 

To  part  forever  from  that  little  girl 

And  all  her  happy  w^orld  so  near  the  ground. 

It  mnst  be  sad  to  outlive  aught  we  love. 

So  I  shall  grieve  a  little  for  these  days 

Of  poor  unwed  Fedalma.    Oh,  they  are  sweet. 

And  none  will  come  just  like  them.    Perhaps  the  wind 

Wails  so  in  winter  for  tlie  summers  dead. 

And  all  sad  sounds  are  nature's  funeral  cries 

For  what  has  been  and  is  not.    Are  they,  Silva  ? 

-  {She  comes  nearer  to  him  again,  and  lays  her  hand  on  his  arm,  looking  up  at 

him  with  melancholy.) 

Don  Silva. 

Why,  dearest,  you  began  in  merriment. 

And  end  as  sadly  as  a  widowed  bird. 

Some  touch  mysterious  has  new-tuned  your  soul 

To  melancholy  sequence.    Y'ou  soared  high 

In  that  wild  flight  of  rapture  wheu  you  danced, 

And  now  you  droop.    'Tis  arbitrary  grief. 

Surfeit  of  happiness,  that  mourns  for  loss 

Of  unwed  love,  which  docs  but  die  like  seed 


^44  THE  BPANISn  OYTSY. 

For  fuller  harvest  of  our  tenderness. 
Wo  in  our  wedded  iilo  shall  kuow  no  loss. 
We  shall  new-date  our  years.    What  went  heforc 
Will  be  the  time  of  promise,  shadows,  dreams; 
15ut  this,  full  revelation  of  great  love. 
For  rivers  blent  take  in  a  broader  heaven, 
And  we  shall  blend  our  souls.    Away  with  grief! 
When  this  dear  head  shall  wear  the  double  crown 
Of  wife  and  Duchess— spiritually  crowned 
Witli  sworn  espousal  before  God  and  man- 
Visibly  crowned  with  jewels  that  bespeak 
The  chosen  sharer  of  my  heritage— 
My  love  will  gather  perfectness,  as  thoughts 
That  nourish  us  to  maguanimity 
Grow  perfect  with  more  perfect  utterance, 
Gathering  full-shapen  strength.    And  then  these  gems, 
(Don  Sii.va  draws  Fedalma  towards  the  jewel-casket  on  the  table,  and  opens  it.) 
Helping  the  utterance  of  my  sonl's  full  choice, 
Will  be  the  words  made  richer  by  just  use. 
And  have  new  meaning  in  their  lustronsness. 
You  know  these  jewels ;  they  are  precious  signs 
Of  long-transmitted  honour,  heightened  still 
By  worthy  wearing;  and  I  give  them  you— 
Ask  you  to  take  them- place  our  house's  trust 
In  her  sure  keeping  whom  my  heart  has  found 
Worthiest,  most  beauteous.    These  rubies— see- 
Were  falsely  placed  if  not  upon  your  brow. 

(Pedalma,  whil£  Don  Silva  holds  open  tlie  casket,  bends  over  it,  lookma  at  the 

jewels  with  delight.) 

Fedalma. 
Ah,  I  remember  them.    In  childish  days 
I  felt  as  if  they  were  alive  and  breathed. 
I  used  to  sit  with  awe  and  look  at  them. 
And  now  they  will  be  mine!    I'll  put  them  on. 
Help  me,  my  lord,  and  you  shall  see  me  now 
Somewhat  as  I  shall  look  at  Court  with  yon, 
That  we  may  know  if  I  shall  bear  them  well. 
I  have  a  fear  sometimes:  I  think  your  love 
lias  never  paused  within  your  eyes  to  look, 
And  only  passes  through  them  into  mine. 
Cut  when  the  Court  is  lookiug,  and  the  queen. 
Your  eyes  will  follow  theirs.    Oh,  if  you  saw 
That  I  was  other  than  you  wished— 'twere  death  1 

Don  Silva  (taking  up  a  jewel  and  placing  it  against  her  ear.) 
Nay,  let  us  try.    Take  out  your  car-ring,  sweet. 
This  ruby  glows  with  longing  for  your  car. 

FiCDALMA  (taking  out  her  ear-ring.'),  and  then  lifting  up  the  otiter  jewels,  one 

by  07ie). 
Pray,  fasten  in  the  rubies. 

(Don  Sii.VA  begins  to  put  in  the  ear-ring.) 
I  was  right ! 
These  gems  have  life  in  them :  their  colors  speak. 
Say  what  words  fail  of.    So  do  many  things— 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  145 

The  Bcent  of  jasmine,  and  the  fountaiu's  plash, 

The  moviug  shadows  ou  the  far-off  hills. 

The  elauting  inooulight,  and  our  clasping  hauds. 

0  Silva,  there's  au  ocean  round  our  words 

That  overflows  and  drowns  them.     Do  you  know 
Sometimes  wheu  we  sit  silent,  aud  the  air 
Breathes  gently  on  ns  from  the  orange-trees, 
It  seems  that  with  the  whisper  of  a  word 
Our  souls  must  shrink,  get  poorer,  more  apart. 
Is  it  uot  tme? 

Don  Silva. 

Yes,  dearest,  it  is  true. 
Speech  is  but  broken  light  upon  the  depth 
Of  the  unspoken :  even  your  loved  words 
Float  in  the  larger  meaning  of  your  voice 
As  something  dimmer. 
{He  is  still  trying  in  vain  to  fasten  the  second  car-ring,  while  she  has  stooped 

again  over  the  casket.) 

Fedalma  [raising  her  head). 

Ah  I  your  lordly  hands 
Will  never  fix  that  jewel.    Let  me  try. 
Women's  small  finger-tips  have  eyes. 

Don  Silva. 

No,  no! 

1  like  the  task,  only  yon  must  be  still. 

(She  stands  perfccthj  still,  claxping  her  hands  together  while  lie  fastens  the  second 
ear-ring.    Suddenly  a  clanking  noise  is  heard  without.) 

Fedalma  {starting  with  an  expression  of  pain). 

What  is  that  sound  f— that  jarring  cruel  sound  ? 
'Tis  there — outside. 
{She  tries  to  start  away  towards  the  window,  but  Don  Silva  detains  Iter.) 

Don  Silva. 

O  heed  it  not,  it  comes 
From  workmen  in  the  outer  gallery. 

Fedalma. 

It  is  the  sound  of  fetters ;  sound  of  work 
la  not  so  dismal.    Hark,  they  pass  along ! 
I  know  it  is  those  Gypsy  prisoners. 
I  saw  them,  heard  their  chains.    O  horrible. 
To  be  in  chains !    Why,  I  with  all  my  bliss 
Have  longed  sometimes  to  fly  and  be  at  large ; 
Have  fult  imprisoned  in  my  luxury 
With  servants  for  my  jailers.    O  my  lord. 
Do  you  not  wish  the  world  were  diflerent? 

Don  Silva. 

It  will  be  different  wheu  this  war  has  ceased. 
You,  wedding  me,  will  make  it  different, 
Making  one  life  more  perfect 

Fedalma. 

That  is  trne ! 
And  I  shall  beg  much  kindness  at  your  hands 

21*  fi* 


146  TUE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

For  those  who  avo  less  happy  than  ourselves. — 

(Urvjhteninr;)  Oh  I  shall  rule  yon!  ask  for  many  things 

Before  the  world,  which  you  will  not  deny 

For  very  priile,  lc.«t  men  shoulil  say,  "The  Duke 

Holds  li-jihtly  by  his  Duchess;  he  repents 

nis  humble  choice." 

(.She  breaks  away  from  hmi  and  returns  to  thajeweU,  taking  up  a  necklace,  and 
clasping  it  on  her  neck,  while  he  takes  a  circlet  of  diamonds  and  rubies  and 
raises  it  towariU  Iter  fiead  as  lie  speaks.) 

Don  Silva. 

Itoubtless,  I  shall  persist 
In  loving  you,  to  disappoint  the  world ; 
Out  of  pure  obstinacy  feci  myself 
Happiest  of  men.    Now,  take  the  coronet. 

(Ue  places  the  circlet  on  her  hcui! ) 
The  diamond.s  want  more  light.    See,  from  this  lamp 
1  can  set  tapers  burning. 

Fedalma. 

Tell  me,  now, 
When  all  these  cruel  wars  are  at  an  cud, 
And  when  we  go  to  Court  at  C<!>rdova, 
Or  Seville,  or  Toledo— wait  awhile, 
I  must  be  farther  off  for  you  to  see — 

(She  retreats  to  a  distance  from  him,  and  then  advance  slowly.) 

Now  think  (I  would  the  thpers  gave  more  light!) 

If  when  you  show  me  at  the  tournaments  j 

Among  the  other  ladies,  they  will  say, 

"  Duke  Silva  is  well  matched.     Ilis  bride  was  nought. 

Was  some  poor  foster-child,  no  man  knows  what; 

Yet  is  her  carriage  noble,  all  her  robes 

Are  worn  with  grace:  she  might  have  been  well  born." 

Will  they  say  so?    Think  now  we  are  at  Court, 

And  all  eyes  bent  on  me. 

Don  Sii.va. 

Fear  not,  my  Duchess! 
Some  knight  who  loves  may  say  his  lady-love 
Is  fairer,  being  fairest.    None  can  say 
Don  Silva's  bride  might  better  tit  her  rank. 
You  will  make  rank  seem  natural  as  kind. 
As  eagle's  plumage  or  the  lion's  might. 
A  crown  upon  your  brow  would  seem  God-made. 

Fi;dai.ma. 

Then  I  am  glad !    I  shall  try  on  to-night 
The  other  jewels— have  the  tapers  lit, 
And  see  the  diamonds  sparkle. 

(She  goes  to  the  casket  again.) 
Ilere  is  gold — 
A  necklace  of  pure  gold— most  finely  wrought. 

(She  takes  out  a  large  gold  necklace  and  holds  it  up  before  her,  then  turns  to 

Don  Silva.) 

JUit  this  is  one  that  you  have  worn,  my  lord? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  147 


Don  Silva, 
No,  love,  I  never  wore  it.    Lay  it  down. 
{He  puts  the  necklace  genthj  out  of  her  hand,  then  joins  both  her  hands  and 
holds  them  up  between  his  own.) 
You  must  not  look  at  jewels  any  more, 
But  look  at  me. 

Fedalma  {looking  up  at  him). 

O  you  dear  heaven! 
I  should  see  nought  if  you  were  gone.    'Tis  true 
My  mind  is  too  much  given  to  gauds — to  thiugs 
That  fetter  thought  withiu  this  narrow  space 
That  comes  of  fear. 

Don  SiLVA. 
What  fear? 

Fedalma. 

Fear  of  myself 
For  when  I  walk  upon  the  battlements 
And  see  the  river  travelling  toward  the  plain, 
The  mountains  screening  all  the  world  beyond, 
A  longing  comes  that  haunts  me  in  my  dreams — 
Dreams  where  I  seem  to  spring  from  off  the  walls, 
And  fly  far,  far  away,  until  at  last 
I  find  myself  alone  among  the  rocks, 
Kemcmber  then  that  I  have  left  you— try 
To  fly  back  to  you— and  my  winga  are  gone! 

Don  Silva. 

A  wicked  dream!    If  ever  I  left  yon. 

Even  iu  dreams,  it  was  some  demon  dragged  me. 

And  with  fierce  struggles  I  awaked  myself. 

Fedalma. 

It  is  a  hateful  dream,  and  when  it  comes— 

I  mean,  when  in  my  waking  hours  there  comes 

That  longing  to  be  free,  I  am  afraid : 

I  run  down  to  my  chamber,  plait  my  hair. 

Weave  colors  in  it,  lay  out  all  ray  gauds. 

And  in  my  mind  make  new  ones  prettier. 

You  see  I  have  two  minds,  and  both  are  foolish. 

Sometimes  a  torrent  rushing  through  my  soul 

Escapes  iu  wild  strange  wishes ;  presently, 

It  dwindles  to  a  little  babbling  rill 

And  plays  among  the  pebbles  and  the  flowers. 

Iflez  will  have  it  I  lack  broidery, 

Says  nought  else  gives  content  to  noble  maids. 

But  I  have  never  broidered — never  will. 

No,  when  I  am  a  Duchess  and  a  wife 

I  shall  ride  forth— may  I  not?— by  your  side 

Don  Sii.va. 

Yes,  you  shall  ride  upon  a  palfrey,  black 
To  match  Bavieca.    Not  Qneen  Isabel 
Will  be  a  sight  more  gladdening  to  men's  eyes 
Than  my  dark  queen  Fedalma. 


148  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


Ah,  l)ut  yon, 
You  nre  my  kinj»,  and  I  shall  tremble  still 
With  some  gicat  feai-  that  throbs  within  my  love. 
Does  your  love  fear? 

Don  Sii.va. 

Ah,  yes  1  all  preciousness 
To  mortal  hearts  13  guarded  by  a  fear. 
All  love  fears  loss,  and  most  that  loss  supreme, 
Its  own  perfection — seeing,  feeling  change 
From  high  to  lower,  dearer  to  less  dear. 
Can  love  be  careless  ?    If  we  lost  our  love 
What  should  we  flud  f— with  this  sweet  Past  torn  ofl", 
Our  lives  deep  scarred  just  where  their  beauty  lay? 
The  best  we  found  thenceforth  wci'e  still  a  worse: 
The  only  better  is  a  Past  that  lives 
On  through  an  added  Present,  stretching  still 
In  hope  unchecked  by  shaming  memories 
To  life's  last  breath.    And  so  I  tremble  too 
Before  my  queen  Fedalma. 

Fedalma. 

That  is  just. 
'Twcre  hard  of  Love  to  make  us  women  fear 
And  leave  you  bold.    Yet  Love  is  not  quite  even. 
For  feeble  creatures,  little  birds  and  fawns, 
Are  shaken  more  by  fear,  while  large  strong  things 
Can  bear  it  stoutly.    So  we  women  still 
Are  not  well  dealt  with.    Yet  I'd  choose  to  be 
Fedalma  loving  Silva.    You,  my  lord, 
Hold  the  worse  share,  since  you  must  love  poor  me. 
But  is  it  what  we  love,  or  how  wc  love. 
That  makes  true  good? 

Don  Silva. 

O  subtlety !  for  mo 
'Tis  what  I  love  determines  how  I  love. 
The  goddess  with  pure  rites  reveals  herself 
And  makes  pure  worship. 

Fit  I)  ALMA. 

Do  you  worship  nio  ? 

Don  Silva. 

Ay,  with  that  best  of  worship  which  adores 
Goodness  adorable. 

Fedalma  {archly). 

Goodness  obedient, 
Doing  your  will,  devoutest  worshipper? 

Don  Silva. 

Yes — listening  to  this  prayer.    This  very  night 
I  shall  go  forth.    And  yon  will  rise  with  day 
And  wait  for  me? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  149 

Ff-DAI.MA. 

Yes. 

Don  Silva. 

I  shall  snrcly  como. 
And  then  we  shall  be  married.    Now  I  go 
To  audience  fixed  in  Abderahman's  tower. 
Farewell,  love ! 

{They  embrace.) 

Fepalma. 
Some  chill  dread  possesses  me ! 

Don  Silva. 
Oh,  confidence  has  oft,  been  evil  augury,    . 
So  dread  may  hold  a  promise.    Sweet,  farewell  I 
I  shall  send  tendance  as  I  pass,  to  bear 
This  casket  to  your  chamber.— One  more  kiss. 

[Exit.) 

Fedalma  {when  Don  Silva  is  gone,  returning  to  the  casket,  and  looking  dreamily 

at  the  jewels). 
Yes,  now  that  good  seems  less  imiwssiblc ! 
Now  it  seems  true  that  I  shall  be  hia  wife, 
Be  ever  by  his  side,  and  make  a  part 

In  all  his  purposes 

These  rubies  greet  me  Duchess.    Eow  they  glow  1 

Their  prisoned  souls  are  throbbing  like  my  own. 

Perchance  they  loved  once,  were  ambitious,  proud : 

Or  do  they  only  dream  of  wider  life, 

Ache  from  iuteuseness,  yearn  to  burst  the  wall 

Compact  of  crystal  splendor,  and  to  fiood 

Some  wider  space  with  glory?    Poor,  poor  gems  I 

We  must  be  patient  in  our  prison-house. 

And  find  our  space  in  loving.    Pray  you,  love  me. 

Let  us  be  glad  together.    And  you,  gold— 

{She  takes  up  the  gold  necklace.) 
You  wondrous  necklace— will  you  love  me,  too, 
And  be  my  amulet  to  keep  me  safe 
From  eyes  that  hurt? 
(She  spreads  out  tfui.  necklace,  ■meaning  to  clasp  it  on  /tcr  neck.     Then  paitscs, 
startled,  holding  it  before  her.) 

Why,  it  is  magical ! 

lie  says  he  never  wore  it— yet  these  lines — 

Nay,  if  he  had,  I  should  remember  well 

'Twas  he,  no  other.    And  these  twisted  lines— 

They  seem  to  speak  to  me  as  writing  would, 

To  bring  a  message  from  the  dead,  dead  past 

What  is  their  secret?    Are  they  characters? 

I  never  learned  them;  yet  they  stir  some  sense 

That  once  I  dreamed— I  have  forgotten  what. 

Or  was  it  life?    Perhaps  I  lived  before 

In  some  strange  world  where  first  my  soul  was  6hai>ed, 

And  all  this  passionate  love,  and  joy,  and  pain, 

That  come,  I  know  not  whence,  and  sway  my  deeds. 

Are  old  imperious  memories,  blind  yet  strong. 

That  this  world  stirs  within  mo ;  as  this  chain 


150  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

Stirs  ?omc  strange  certainty  of  visions  gone, 
Ami  all  my  mind  is  as  an  eye  that  stares 
Into  tlio  ilarliiiess  painfully. 
{While  Feuai.m.v  has  Imii  looking  at  the  nfcklacc,  Juan  Arts  entered,  and  finding 
himself  unobserved  by  her,  says  at  last), 

Scflora  1 
Fedalma  Fitarts,  and  gatluirinr/  the  necklace  together,  turns  round— 

Oh,  Juau,  it  is  you  ! 

Juan. 

I  met  the  Dulic— 
Ilad  waited  long  without,  no  matter  why— 
And  when  he  ordered  one  to  wait  on  you 
And  carry  forth  a  burden  you  would  Rive, 
I  prayed  for  leave  to  be  the  servitor. 
Don  Silva  owes  me  twenty  granted  wishes 
That  I  have  never  tendered,  laclving  aught 
That  I  could  wish  for  and  a  Duke  could  grant; 
But  this  one  wish  to  serve  you,  weighs  as  much 
As  twenty  other  longings. 

Febai.ma  (smiling). 

That  sounds  well. 
You  turn  your  speeches  prettily  as  songs. 
But  I  will  not  forget  the  many  days 
You  have  neglected  me.    Your  pupil  learns 
But  little  from  you  now.     Her  studies  flag. 
The  Dulje  says,  "That  is  idle  Juan's  way: 
Poets  must  rove— are  honey-sucking  birds 
And  know  not  constancy."    Said  he  quite  true? 

Juan, 
O  lady,  constancy  has  kind  and  ranlc. 
One  man's  is  lordly,  plump,  and  bravely  clad, 
Ilolds  its  head  high,  and  tells  tlie  world  its  name: 
Another  man's  is  beggared,  must  go  bare. 
And  shiver  through  the  world,  the  jest  of  all, 
But  that  it  puts  the  motley  on,  and  plays 
Itself  the  jester.    But  I  see  you  hold 
The  Gypsy's  necklace:  it  is  quaintly  wrought. 

Fedalma. 
The  Gypsy's?    Do  you  know  its  history? 

Juan. 
No  farther  back  than  when  I  saw  it  taken 
From  off  its  wearer's  neck— the  Gypsy  chief's. 

Fepalma  (eagerly). 
What !  he  who  paused,  at  tolling  of  the  bell. 
Before  me  in  the  Plapa? 

Juan. 

Yes,  I  eav? 
His  look  fixed  on  you. 

Fedalma. 

Know  you  aught  of  him  ? 
Juan. 
Something  and  nothing— as  I  know  the  sky, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

Or  some  great  story  of  the  olden  time 
That  hides  a  Bccret.    I  have  oft  talked  with  him. 
He  seems  to  say  much,  yet  is  but  a  wizard 
Who  draws  dowu  raiu  by  sprinkling;   throws  inc  out 
Some  pregnant  text  that  urges  comment;  casts 
A  sharp-hooked  question,  baited  with  such  skill 
It  needs  must  catch  the  answer. 
Fedalma. 

It  is  hard 
That  such  a  man  should  be  a  prisoner- 
Be  chained  to  work. 

Juan. 

Oh,  he  Is  dangerous ! 
Qran&da  with  this  Zarca  for  a  king 
Might  still  maim  Christendom.    He  is  of  those 
Who  steal  the  keys  from  snoring  Destiny 
And  make  the  prophets  lie.    A  Gypsy,  too. 
Suckled  by  hunted  beasts,  whose  mother-milk 
Has  filled  his  veins  with  hate. 

Fedalma. 

I  thought  hie  eyea 

Spoke  not  of  hatred— seemed  to  say  he  bore 

The  pain  of  those  who  never  could  be  saved. 

What  if  the  Gypsies  are  but  savage  beasts 

And  must  be  hunted  ?— let  them  be  set  free. 

Have  benefit  of  chase,  or  stand  at  bay 

And  fight  for  life  and  oflspriug.     Prisoners ! 

Oh !  they  have  made  their  fires  beside  the  streams. 

Their  walls  have  been  the  rocks,  the  pillared  pines, 

Their  roof  the  living  sky  that  breathes  with  light: 

They  may  welliiate  a  cage,  like  strong-winged  birds,^ 

Like  me,  who  have  no  wings,  but  only  wishes. 

I  will  beseech  the  Duke  to  set  them  freei 

Juan. 
Pardon  me,  lady,  if  I  seem  to  warn. 
Or  try  to  play  the  sage.    What  if  the  Duke 
Loved  not  to  hear  of  Gypsies?  if  their  name? 
Were  poisoned  for  him  once,  being  used  amiss  t 
I  speak  not  as  of  fact.    Our  nimble  souls 
Can  spin  an  insubstantial  universe 
Suiting  our  mood,  and  call  it  possible, 
Sooner  than  see  one  grain  with  eye  exact 
And  give  strict  record  of  it.    Yet  by  chance 
Our  fancies  may  be  truth  aod  make  us  seers. 
'Tis  a  rare  teeming  world,  so  harvest-full, 
,  Even  guessing  ignorance  may  pluck  some  fruit. 
Note  what  I  say  no  farther  than  will  stead 
The  siege  you  lay.     I  would  not  seem  to  tell 
Aught  that  the  Duke  may  think  and  yet  withhold: 
It  were  a  trespass  in  me. 

Fbdalma. 

Fear  not,  Juan. 
Your  wordg  bring  daylight  with  them  when  you  speak. 
I  understand  your  care.    Pjut  I  am  brave— 


151 


152  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

Oh  I  and  so  cunning !— always  I  prevail. 
Now,  honored  Troubadour,  if  you  will  be 
Your  pupil's  iscrvaiit,  bear  this  casket  hence. 
Nay,  not  the  necklace:  it  is  hard  to  place. 
I'ray  go  before  me ;  lilez  will  be  there. 

{Exit  Juan  with  the  casket.) 

Fki>alma  (lookiwj  again  at  the  necklace). 
It  is  his  past  clings  to  you,  not  my  own. 
If  we  have  each  our  angels,  good  and  bad,  ? 
Fates,  separate'  from  ourselves,  who  act  for  us 
When  we  arc  blind,  or  sleep,  then  this  man's  fate, 
Ilovering  about  the  thing  he  used  to  wear, 
Has  laid  its  grasp  on  mine  appealingly. 
Dangerous,  is  lie  ?— well,  a  Spanish  knight 
Would  have  his  enemy  strong — defy,  not  bind  him. 
I  can  dare  all  things  when  my  soul  is  moved 
By  something  hidden  that  possesses  me. 
If  Silva  said  this  man  must  keep  his  chains 
I  should  find  ways  to  free  him — disobey 
And  free  him  as  I  did  the  birds.    But  no ! 
As  soon  as  we  are  wed,  I'll  put  my  prayer, 
And  he  vviill  not  deny  me:   he  is  good. 
Oh,  I  shall  have  much  power  as  well  as  joy  1 
Duchess  Fedalma  may  do  what  she  will. 


A  Street  by  the  Castle.  JnAN  leans  against  a  parapet,  in  moonlight,  and  touches 
his  lute  half  unconsciousl;/.  Pepita  stands  on  tiptoe  ivatching  Mm,  and  then 
advances  till  her  shadow  falls  in  front  of  him.  He  looks  towards  tier.  A 
piece  of  white  drapery  thrown  over  her  head  catches  the  moonlight 

Ila  !  my  Pepita !   sec  how  thin  and  long 
Your  shadow  is.    'Tis  so  your  ghost  will  be, 
When  you  are  dead. 

Pepita  (crossing  liersclf). 

Dead  ! — O  the  blessed  saints ! 
Yon  would  be  glad,  then,  if  Pepita  died  ? 

Jdan. 
Glad  1  why  1    Dead  maidens  are  not  merry.    Ghosts 
Are  doleful  company.    I  like  you  living. 

Pepita. 
I  think  you  like  me  not.     I  wish  yon  did. 
Sometimes  you  sing  to  me  and  make  me  dance, 
Another  time  you  take  no  heed  of  me, 
Not  though  I  kiss  my  hand  to  you  and  smile. 
But  Andres  would  be  glad  if  I  kissed  him. 

Juan. 
My  poor  Pepita,  I  am  old. 

Pepita. 

No,  no. 
You  have  no  wrinkles. 

Juan. 
Yes,  I  have— within; 


THE  SPANISH  OVPSY.  153 

The  wrinkles  nre  within,  my  little  bird. 
Why,  I  have  lived  through  twice  a  thousand  years, 
And  kept  the  company  of  men  whose  bones 
Crumbled  before  the  blessed  Virgin  lived. 

PEriTA  {crossing  herself). 
Nay,  God  defend  us,  that  is  wicked  talk! 
You  say  it  but  to  scorn  me.    (Witli  a  sob)  I  will  go. 

JlTAN. 

Stay,  little  pigeon.    I  am  not  unkind. 

Come,  sit  upon  the  wall.    Nay,  never  cry. 

Give  me  your  check  to  kiss.    There,  cry  no  more ! 

(Pepita,  sitting  07i  the  low  parapet,  puts  up  Mr  clieek  to  Juan,  loho  kisses  it, 
2mtting  his  hand  under  her  chin.    She  takes  his  luvnd  and  kisses  it). 

Pepita. 
I  like  to  kiss  your  hand.     It  is  so  good— 
So  smooth  and  soft. 

JnAN. 
Well,  well,  I'll  sing  to  you. 

Pepita. 
A  pretty  song,  loving  and  merry  ? 

Juan. 

Yes. 
(Juan  sings) 
Memory, 
Tell  to  me 
What  is  fair. 
Past  compare. 
In  the  land  of  Tubal  ? 

Is  it  Springes 
Lovely  things. 
Blossoms  white, 
Hosy  dight  ? 
Then  it  is  Pepita. 

Summer^s  crest 
Red-gold  tressed, 

Corn-floxvcrs  pee^nng  wider  ? — 
Idle  noons, 
Lingering  moons. 
Sudden  cloud, 
Lightning^s  shroud. 
Sudden  rain, 
Quick  again 

Smiles  where  late  was  thunder? — 
Are  all  these 
Made  to  please  ? 

So  too  is  Pepita. 

Autumn^s  prime, 

Apple-time, 
Smooth  check  round. 
Heart  all  sound? 


154  TITE  SPANISH  GYrSY. 

Is  it  this 
V'oit  would  kiss  J 
Then  it  is  Pepda. 

You  can  bring 
No  sv>ect  tltinp, 
Hut  mi;  mind 
Still  shall  find 
It  is  vuj  I'cp'ita. 

Memory 
Says  to  ma 
It  is  she — 
She  is  fair 
Past  compare 
In  the  land  of  Tubal. 

Pepita.  (seizing  Juan's  hand  again). 

Oh,  then,  you  do  love  me  ? 

Joan. 

Yes,  iu  the  song. 

Pepita  (sadly). 
Not  ont  of  it?— not  love  rac  out  of  it? 

Juan. 
Only  a  little  out  of  it,  my  bird. 
When  I  was  singing  I  was  Audits,  say, 
Or  ouo  who  loves  you  better  still  than  he. 

Pepita. 
Not  yourself? 

Juan. 

No! 

Pepita  (throwing  Ms  hand  down  pettishly). 

Then  take  it  back  again ! 
I  will  not  have  it  1 

Jcan. 
Listen,  little  one. 
Juan  is  not  a  living  man  by  himself: 
His  life  is  breathed  in  him  by  other  men. 
And  they  speak  out  of  him.     lie  is  their  voica 
Juan's  own  life  he  gave  once  quite  aw.ay. 
Pepita's  lover  sang  that  song— not  Juan. 
We  old,  old  poets,  if  we  kept  our  hearts. 
Should  hardly  know  them  from  another  man's. 
They  shrink  to  make  room  for  the  many  more 
We  keep  within  us.     There,  now — one  more  kiss, 
And  then  go  home  again. 

Pepita  (a  little  frightened,  after  letting  Jdan  kisa  Iter). 
You  are  not  wicked? 

Jcan. 
Ask  your  confessor— tell  him  what  I  said. 

(Pepita  goes,  while  Juan  thrums  his  lute  again,  and  sings.) 
Came  a  pretty  maid 
Dy  the  wwoji's  pure  light. 


THE  SPANISH  GTPST.  155 

Loved  me  well,  eJw  said. 
Eyes  ivith  tfais  all  blight, 
A  prcWj  maid! 
But  too  late  she  strayed. 

Moonlight  inire  was  there; 
She  was  nought  but  shade 
Hiding  the  more  fair. 
The  heavenly  vutid  ! 

A  vaulted  room  all  stotie.  The  light  shed  from  a  high  lamp.  Wooden  chairs,  a 
desk,  book-shelves.  The  Puiob,  in  white  frock,  a  black  rosary  with  a  crucifix  of 
ebony  and  ivory  at  his  side,  is  walking  up  and  doivn,  holding  a  written  pajicr 
in  Ids  lumds,  which  are  clasped  behind  him. 

-  What  if  this  witness  lies?   he  says  he  heard  her 
Coutrtiug  licr  blasphemies  on  a  rosary, 
And  fii  a  bold  disconrse  with  Salomo, 
Say  tliat  the  Host  was  nought  but  ill-mixed  flomv 
That  it  was  mean  to  pray--she  never  prayed. 
I  know  the  man  who  wrote  this  for  a  cur, 
Who  follows  Don  Diego,  sees  life's  good 
In  spraps  my  nephew  flings  to  him.    What  then*? 
Particular  lies  may  speak  a  general  truth.  -' 

I  guess  him  false,  but  know  her  heretic — 
Know  her  for  Satan's  instrument,  bedecked 
With  heathenish  charms,  luring  the  souls  of  men 
To  damning  trust  in  good  unsanctilied. 
Let  her  be  prisoned— questioned— she  will  give 
Witness  against  herself,  that  were  this  false  .  . . 
(He  looks  at  the  j)aper  again  and  reads,  then  again  thrusts  it  behind  him). 
The  matter  and  the  color  are  not  false: 
The  form  concerns  the  witness  not  the  judge; 
For  proof  is  gathered  by  the  sifting  mind. 
Not  given  in  crude  and  formal  circumstance. 
Suspicion  is  a  heaven-sent  lamp,  and  I— 
I,  watchman  of  the  Holy  Oflice,  bear 
That  lamp  iu  trust.    I  will  keep  faithful  watch. 
The  Holy  Inquisition's  discipline 
Is  mercy,  saving  her,  if  penitent — 
God  grant  it !— else— root  up  the  poison-plant, 
Though  'twere  a  lily  with  a  golden  heart  I 
This  spotless  maiden  with  her  pagan  soul 
Is  the  arch-enemy's  trap:  he  turns  his  back 
On  all  the  prostitutes,  and  watches  her 
To  see  her  poison  men  with  false  belief 
In  rebel  virtues.    She  has  poisoned  Silva; 
His  shifting  mind,  dangerous  in  fitfuluess, 
Strong  iu  the  contradiction  of  itself. 
Carries  his  young  ambitions  wearily, 
As  holy  vows  regretted.    Once  he  seemed 
The  fresh-oped  flower  of  Christian  knighthood,  born 
For  feats  of  holy  daring;  and  I  said: 
"  That  half  of  life  which  I,  as  monk,  renounce. 
Shall  be  fulfilled  iu  him :  Silva  will  be 
That  saintly  noble,  that  wise  warrior. 
That  blameless  excellence  in  worldly  gifts 
I  would  have  been,  had  I  hot  asked  to  live 


156  TIIE  SPANISH  OYrSY. 

The  hlj^her  life  of  man  impersonal 
Who  leigus  o'er  all  things  by  refusing  all." 
What  is  his  promise  now?    Apostasy 
From  every  high  Intent: — languid,  nay,  gone, 
The  prompt  devontncss  of  a  generous  heart, 
The  strong  obedience  of  a  reverent  will, 
That  breathes  the  Churcli's  air  and  sees  her  light, 
lie  peers  and  strains  with  feeble  questioning, 
Or  else  he  jests,     lie  thinks  I  know  it  not — 
I  who  have  read  the  history  of  his  lapse. 
As  clear  as  it  is  writ  in  the  angel's  book. 
He  will  defy  me — flings  great  words  at  me — 
Me  who  have  governed  all  our  house's  acts, 
Since  1,  a  stripling,  ruled  his  stripling  father. 
This  maiden  is  the  cause,  and  if  they  wed, 
The  Holy  War  may  count  a  captain  lost. 
For  better  he  were  dead  than  keep  his  place, 
And  fill  it  infamously  :  in  God's  war 
Slackness  is  infamy.    Shall  1  stand  by 
And  let  the  tempter  win  ?  defraud  Christ's  cause. 
And  blot  his  banner?— all  for  scruples  weak 
Of  pity  towards  their  young  and  frolicsome  blood ; 
Or  nice  discrimination  of  the  tool 
By  which  my  hand  shall  work  a  sacred  rescue? 
The  fence  of  rules  is  for  the  purblind  crowd ; 
They  walk  by  averaged  precepts:  sovereign  men, 
Seeing  by  God's  light,  see  the  general 
By  seeing  all  the  special — own  no  rule 
But  their  full  vision  of  the  moment's  worth. 
'Tis  so  God  governs,  using  wicked  men- 
Nay,  scheming  fiends,  to  work  his  purposes. 
Evil  that  good  may  come?    Measure  the  good 
Before  you  say  what's  evil.     Peijuryi?  f" 

I  scorn  the  perjurer,  but  1  will  use  him 
To  serve  the  holy  truth.    There  is  no  lie 
Save  in  his  soul,  and  let  his  soul  be  judged. 
I  know  the  truth,  and  act  upon  the  truth. 

O  God,  thou  knowcst  that  my  will  is  pnrc. 

Thy  servant  owns  nought  for  himself,  his  wealth 

Is  but  obedience.    And  1  have  sinned 

In  keeping  small  respects  of  human  love — 

Calling  it  mercy.    Mercy?    Where  evil  is 

True  mercy  holds  a  sword.    Mercy  would  sav& 

Save  whom?    Save  serpents,  locusts,  wolves? 

Or  out  of  pity  let  the  idiots  gorge 

Within  a  famished  town  ?    Or  save  the  gains 

Of  men  who  trade  in  poison  lest  they  starve? 

Save  all  things  mean  and  foul  that  clog  the  earth 

Stifling  the  better?    Save  the  fools  who  cling 

For  refuge  round  their  hideous  idol's  limbs, 

So  leave  the  idol  grinning  unconsumed. 

And  save  the  fools  to  breed  idolaters? 

O  mercy  worthy  of  the  licking  hound 

That  knows  no  future  but  its  feeding  time! 

Mercy  has  eyes  that  pie^'ce  the  ages— sees 

From  heights  divine  of  the  eternal  purpose 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  157 

F'ar-scattcred  consequence  in  its  vast  sum ; 

OhooBes  to  B.ive,  but  with  illumined  vision 

Sees  ttiat  to  save  is  greatly  to  destroy. 

'Tis  80  the  Holy  Inquisition  sees:  its  wrath 

Is  fed  from  the  strong  heart  of  wisest  love. 

For  love  must  needs  make  hatred.    He  who  loves 

God  and  his  law  must  hate  the  foes  of  God. 

Aud  I  have  sinned  in  being  merciful: 

Being  slack  in  hate,  I  have  been  slacli  in  love. 

{tie  taken  the  crucifix  and  hoMs  it  ii/p  hcfura  him.) 
Thou  shuddering,  bleeding,  thirsting,  dying  God, 
Thou  Man  of  Sorrows,  scourged  and  bruised  and  torn, 
Suffering  to  save— wilt  thou  not  judge  the  world? 
This  arm  which  held  the  children,  this  pale  hand 
That  gently  touched  the  eyelids  of  the  blind, 
And  opened  passive  to  the  cruel  nail. 
Shall  one  day  stretch  to  leftward  of  thy  throne, 
Charged  with  the  power  that  malces  the  lightning  strong, 
And  hurl  thy  foes  to  everlasting  hell. 
Aud  thou,  Immaculate  Mother,  Virgin  mild, 
Thou  sevenfold-pierced,  thou  pitying,  pleading  Queen, 
Shalt  see  aud  smile,  while  the  black  filthy  souls 
Sink  with  foul  weight  to  their  eternal  place, 
Purging  the  Holy  Light.    Yea,  I  have  sinned 
And  called  it  mercy.    But  I  shrinlc  no  more. 
To-morrow  morn  this  temptress  shall  be  safe 
Under  the  Holy  Inquisition's  key. 
lie  think.s  to  wed  her,  aud  defy  me  then. 
She  being  shielded  by  our  house's  name. 
But  he  shall  never  wed  her.    I  have  said. 

The  time  is  come.     Exurge,  Doininc, 
Judica  causam  tuam.    Let  thy  foes 
Be  driven  as  the  smoke  before  the  wind, 
And  melt  like  wax  upon  the  furuace  lip! 


large  chamber  richly  furnished  opening  on  a  terrace-garden,  the  trees  visible 
through  the  window  in  faint  moonlight.  Floxoers  hanging  about  the  window,  lit 
up  by  the  tapers.  The  casket  of  jewels  open  on  a  table.  The  gold  necklace  lying 
near.  Fkdalma,  splendidly  dressed  and  adorned  with  pearU  and  rubies,  is 
walking  up  and  down. 

So  soft  a  night  was  never  made  for  sleep. 
But  for  the  waking  of  the  finer  sense 
To  every  murmuring  and  gentle  sound, 
To  subtlest  odors,  pulses,  visitings 
That  touch  our  frames  with  wings  too  delicate 
To  be  discerned  amid  the  blare  of  day. 
(She  pauses  near  the  window  to  gather  some  jasmine :  then  walks  again.) 
Surely  these  flowers  keep  happy  watch— their  breath 
Is  their  fond  memory  of  the  loving  light. 
I  often  rue  the  hours  I  lose  in  sleep: 
It  is  a  bliss  too  brief,  only  to  see 
This  glorious  world,  to  hear  the  voice  of  love, 
To  feel  the  touch,  the  breath  of  tenderness, 
And  then  to  rest  as  from  a  spectacle. 
I  need  the  curtained  stillness  of  the  niglit 


158  THE   SPANISH  GYrSY. 

To  live  through  all  my  happy  houis  nRaiii 

With  more  Pclcction— cull  them  quite  nway 

From  blemishca  moments.    Then  in  loneliness 

The  face  that  bent  before  mo  in  the  day 

Rises  iu  its  own  light,  more  vivid  seems 

Painted  upon  the  dark,  and  ccaseleiss  glows 

With  sweet  solemnity  of  gazing  love, 

Till  like  the  heavenly  blue  it  seems  to  grow 

Nearer,  more  kindred,  and  more  cherishing. 

Mingling  with  all  my  being.    Then  the  words, 

The  tender  low-toned  words  come  back  again, 

With  repetition  welcome  as  the  chime 

Of  softly  hurrying  brooks— "My  only  love— 

My  love  while  life  shall  last— my  own  Fedalma!" 

Oh  it  is  mine— the  joy  that  once  has  been  ! 

Poor  eager  hope  is  but  a  stammerer, 

Must  listen  dumbly  to  great  memory, 

Who  makes  our  bliss  the  sweeter  by  her  telling. 

{She  jmuses  a  moment  viusinglij.) 
But  that  dumb  hojie  is  still  a  sleeping  guard 
Whose  quiet  rhythmic  breath  saves  me  from  dread' 
In  this  fair  paradise.    For  if  the  earth 
Broke  off  with  flower-fringed  edge,  visibly  sheer, 
Leaving  no  footing  for  my  forward  step 
But  empty  blackness  .  .  . 

Nay,  there  is  no  fear — 
They  will  renew  themselves,  day  and  my  joy, 
And  all  that  ])ast  which  is  securely  mine, 
Will  be  the  hidden  root  that  nourishes 
Qur  still  unfolding,  ever-ripening  love! 
( While  she  U  littering  the  last  words,  a  little  bird  falls  softly  on  the  flow  behind 
her;  she  hears  tlio  light  sound  of  it^  fall,  and  turns  round.) 
Did  something  enter?  .  .  . 

Yes,  this  little  bird  .  .  . 

{She  lifts  it.) 
Pead  and  yet  warm ;  'twas  seeking  sauctnary, 
And  died,  perhaps  of  fright,  at  the  altar  foot. 
Stay,  there  is  something  tied  beneath  the  wing ! 
A  strip  of  linen,  streaked  with  blood— what  blood? 
The  streaks  are  written  words— are  sent  to  mc— 

0  God,  are  sent  to  me!    Dear  child,  Fedalma, 
He  brave,  give  no  alarm — yotir  Father  comes  ! 

{She  lets  tfie  bird  fall  again.) 
BIy  Father  .  .  .  comes  ...  my  Father  .  .  . 
[She  turns  in  quivering  expectation  towards  the  window.    There  is  perfect  stillness 
a  few  moments  u^itil  Zaeoa.  appears  at  the  luindow.    lie  enters  quickly  and 
noiselessly;  then  stajids  still  at  his  full  height,  and  at  a  distance  from  Fn- 

DALMA.) 

Fkdal.ma  {in  a  low,distinct  tone  of  terror). 

It  is  he ! 

1  said  his  fate  had  laid  its  hold  on  mine. 

Zakoa  {advanci7ig  a  step  or  two). 
You  know,  then,  who  I  am? 

Fedalma. 

The  prisoner- 
lie  whom  I  aaw  iu  fetters— aud  Ihia  necklace  .  .  . 


THE   SPANISH  GYPSY.  159 


Zaeca. 


Was  played  with  by  your  fingers  when  it  huug 
About  niy  ueck,  full  tiftcea  years  ago. 

Fbdalma  {looking  at  the  necklace  and  handling  it,  then  speaking,  as  if  vncon- 

scimtshj). 

Full  flftcGu  years  ago  1 

Zaroa. 

The  very  day 
I  lost  you,  when  you  wore  a  tiuy  gown 
Of  scarlet  cloth  with  golden  broidery  : 
'Twas  clasped  in  front  by  coins — two  golden  coins. 
The  one  upon  the  left  was  split  in  two 
Across  the  king's  head,  right  from  brow  to  uapo, 
A  dent  i'  the  middle  nicking  in  the  cheek. 
You  see  I  know  the  little  gown  by  heart. 

Fkdalma  (growing  paler  and  more  trcmulovti). 

Yes.    It  is  true — I  have  the  gown— the  clasps— 
The  braid— sore  tarnished :— it  is  long  ago ! 

Zaroa. 
Biit  yesterday  to  mc ;  for  till  to-day 
I  saw  you  always  as  that  little  child. 
And  when  they  took  my  necklace  from  me,  still 
Your  fingers  played  about  it  on  my  neck. 
And  still  those  buds  of  fingers  on  your  feet 
Caught  in  its  meshes  as  you  seemed  to  climb 
Up  to  my  shoulder.    You  were  not  stolen  nil. 
You  had  a  double  life  fed  from  my  heart.  .  .  . 
(Fedalma,  letting  fall  the  necklace,  makes  an  impulsive  movement  towards 
him  with  outstretched  hands.) 
The  Gypsy  father  loves  his  children  well. 

Fkdalma  {shrinking,  trembling,  and  letting  fall  her  hands). 
IIow  came  it  that  you  sought  me — no— I  mean, 
How  came  it  that  you  knew  me— that  you  lost  me? 

Zaroa  {standing  perfectly  still). 
Poor  child !  I  see- your  father  and  his  rags 
Are  welcome  as  the  piercing  wintry  wind 
Within  this  silken  chamber.     It  is  well. 
I  would  not  have  a  child  who  stooped  to  feign. 
And  aped  a  sudden  love.    Better,  true  hate. 

Fedalma  {raising  her  eyes  towards  him,  with  a  flash  of  adiniration,  and  looking  ac 

him  fixedly). 
Father,  how  was  it  that  we  lost  each  other? 

Zaroa. 
I  lost  you  as  a  man  may -lose  a  gem 
Wherein  he  has  compressed  his  total  wealth, 
Or  the  right  hand  whose  cunning  makes  him  great; 
I  lost  you  by  a  trivial  accident. 
Marauding  Spaniards,  sweeping  like  a  storm 
Over  a  spot  within  the  Moorish  bounds 
Near  where  our  camp  lay,  doubtless  snatched  you  up, 


160  TUE  SPANISU  OYP8Y. 

When  Ziud,  yonr  nurse,  na  she  coiifcsseii,  was  urged 
By  bni-niiij;  thirst  to  wander  toward  the  stream, 
And  leave  you  on  the  sand  some  paces  off 
Playing  with  i)cbbles,  while  she  dog-like  lapped. 
'Twaa  so  I  lost  yon — never  saw  you  more 
Until  to-day  I  saw  you  dancing  1    Saw 
The  daughter  of  the  Zincalo  make  sport 
For  those  who  spit  upon  her  people's  name. 

Fedai.ma  {vehemently). 
It  was  not  sport.    What  if  the  world  looked  on  ?— 
I  danced  for  joy— for  love  of  all  the  world. 
13nt  when  you  looked  at  me  my  joy  waa  slabbed— 
Stabbed  with  your  pain.     I  wondered  .  .  .  now  I  know     .  . 
It  was  my  father's  pain. 
(She  pauses  a  momoit  luith  eyes  bent   downward,  during  which  Zauoa. 
examines  her /ace.    Then  she  says  quickly,) 
How  were  you  sure 
At  once  I  was  your  child? 

Zauoa. 

I  had  witness  strong 
As  any  Cadi  needs,  before  I  saw  yon  ! 
I  fitted  all  my  memories  with  the  chat 
Of  one  named  Juan— one  whose  rapid  talk 
Showers  like  the  blossoms  from  a  light-twigged  shrub, 
If  you  but  cough  beside  it.    I  learned  all 
The  story  of  your  Sjjanish  nurture— all 
The  promise  of  your  fortune.    When  at  last 
I  fronted  you,  my  little  maid  full-grown, 
Belief  was  turned  to  vision :  then  I  saw 
That  she  whom  Spaniards  called  the  bright  Fedalma— 
The  little  red-frocked  foundling  three  years  old- 
Grown  to  such  perfectnesa  the  Spanish  Duke 
Had  wooed  her  for  his  Duchess— was  the  child, 
Sole  offspring  of  my  ilesh,  that  Lambra  bore 
One  hour  before  the  Christian,  hunting  us, 
Hurried  her  on  to  death.    Therefore  I  sought— 
Therefore  I  come  to  claim  you— claim  my  child. 
Not  from  the  Spaniard,  not  from  him  who  robbed, 
But  from  herself. 
(Fkdai.ma  has  gradually  approached  close  to  Zauoa,  and  with  a  low  soh  sinks 

Ml  h^r  knees  before  him.    lie  stoops  to  kiss  her  brow,  and  lays  his  haiuls 

on  her  head.) 

Zauoa  {with  solemn  tenderness). 
Then  ray  child  owns  her  father  ? 

Fkdalma. 

Father !  yes. 
I  will  eat  dust  before  I  will  deny 
The  flesh  I  spring  from. 

Zauoa. 

There  my  daughter  spoke. 
Away  then  with  these  rubies! 
[Tie  seizes  the  circlet  of  rxtbies  and  flings  it  on  the  ground-     Fkdm.ma,  start- 
ing from  the  ground  wUh  strong  ewotion,  shrinks  backward.) 

Such  a  crown 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  161 

Is  iufamy  around  a  Zincala's  brow. 
It  is  her  people's  blood,  deckiug  her  shame. 
Fed  ALMA,  (ofler  a  movient,  slowly  and  disUnctlij,  as  if  acc.C2)ting  a  doom). 
Then  ...  I  was  born  ...  a  Ziucala  ? 

Zarca. 

Of  a  blood 
Unmixed  as  virgin  wiiie-jiiice. 

Fedalma. 

Of  a  race 
More  outcast  and  despised  than  Moor  or  Jew  ? 

Zaroa, 

Yes:  wanderers  whom  no  God  took  kuowIcilt,'c  of 
To  give  them  laws,  to  fight  for  tlicni,  or  blight 
Another  race  to  make  them  amjilcr  room ; 
Who  have  no  Whence  or  Whither  iu  Iheir  souls, 
No  dimmest  lore  of  glorious  ancestors 
To  make  a  common  hearth  for  piety. 

FEnALMA. 

A  race  that  lives  on  prey  as  foxes  do 

With  stealthy,  petty  rapine :  so  despised, 

It  is  not  persecuted,  only  spurned. 

Crushed  underfoot,  warred  on  by  chance  like  rats. 

Or  swarming  flies,  or  reptiles  of  the  sea 

Dragged  in  the  net  unsought,  iind  fluug  far  ofl" 

To  perish  as  they  may? 

Zaroa. 

Yon  paint  us  well. 

So  abject  are  the  men  whc*e  blood  we  share : 

Untutored,  uubefriended,  unendowed  ; 

Ko  favorites  of  heaven  or  of  men. 

Therefore  I  cling  to  them!    Therefore  no  hue 

Shall  draw  me  to  disown  them,  or  forsake 

The  meagre  wandering  herd  that  lows  for  help 

And  needs  me  for  its  guide,  to  seek  my  pasture 

Among  the  well-fed  beeves  that  graze  at  will. 

Because  onr  race  has  no  great  memories, 

I  will  so  live,  it  shall  remember  me 

For  deeds  of  such  divine  beneflcence 

As  rivers  have,  that  teach  men  what  is  good 

By  blessing  them.    I  h.ave  been  schooled— have  caught 

Lore  from  the  Hebrew,  deftness  from  the  Moor- 
Know  the  rich  heritage,  the  milder  life. 

Of  nations  fathered  by  a  mighty  Past ; 

But  were  our  race  accursed  (as  they  who  make 

Good  luck  a  god  count  all  unlucky  men) 

I  would  espouse  their  curse  sooner  than  take 

My  gifts  from  brethren  naked  of  all  good, 

And  lend  them  to  the  rich  for  usury. 
(Fedalma  arinin  advances,  and  puUinjj  forth  her  right  hand  grasps  Zat?- 
oa's  left-     lie  places  his  other,  hand  on  her  shoulder.     They  stand  so,  look- 
iw;  at  each  other.) 

■  22  n 


162  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  . 

Zakoa. 
And  yon,  my  child?  arc  you  of  other  iiiiiul, 
Choosing  forj^etfuhiess,  hating  tlie  trnlli 
Tliat  says  you  are  akin  to  neudy  men?— 
Wisliiiif,'  your  fatlier  wore  some  Christian  Dulcc, 
Will)  could  lians^  Gypsies  when  their  task  was  done, 
VVliile  you,  his  daughter,  were  not  bound  to  care? 

Ff.dai.iiia  {in  a  troubled,  eager  voice). 
No,  I  should  always  care— I  cared  for  you — 
For  all,  before  I  dreamed  .  .  . 

Zauoa. 

Before  you  dreamed 
That  you  were  born  a  Zincala — your  flesh 
Stamped  with  your  people's  faith. 

FiCDALMA  {bitterh/). 

The  Gypsies'  faith? 
Meu  say  they  have  none. 

Zaroa. 

Oh,  it  is  a  faith 
Taught  by  no  priest,  but  by  their  beating  hearts: 
Faith  to  each  other:  the  fidelity 
Of  fellow-wanderers  in  a  desert  place 
^Vho  share  the  same  dire  thirst,  and  therefore  share 
Tlie  scanty  water:  the  fidelity 
Of  meu  whose  pulses  leap  with  kindred  fire. 
Who  in  the  flash  of  eyes,  the  clasp  of  hands. 
The  speech  that  even  in  lying  tells  the  truth 
Of  heritage  inevitable  as  birth, 
Nay,  in  the  silent  bodily  presence  feel 
The  mystic  stirring  of  a  common  life 
Which  makes  the  many  one:  fidelily 
To  the  consecrating  oath  our  sponsor  Fate 
Made  through  our  infant  breath  when  we  were  born 
The  fellow-heirs  of  that  small  island,  Life, 
Where  we  must  dig  and  sow  and  reap  with  brothers. 
Fear  thou  that  oath,  my  daughter — nay,  not  fear, 
J3ut  love  it;  for  the  sanctity  of  oaths 
Lies  not  in  lightning  that  avenges  them. 
But  in  the  injury  wrought  by  broken  bonds 
And  in  the  garnered  good  of  human  trust. 
And  you  have  sworn— even  with  your  infant  breath 
You  too  were  pledged.  .  .  . 

FuDALMA  (letting  go  Zakoa'b  hand,  and  sinking  backward  on  her  knees,  with 
bent  head,  as  if  be/ore  some  impending,  crushing  locight)). 
To  what?  what  have  I  sworn? 

Zaroa. 
To  take  the  heirship  of  the  Gypsy's  child: 
The  child  of  him  who,  being  chief,  will  be 
The  savior  of  his  tribe,  or  if  he  fail  ' 

Will  choose  to  fail  rather  than  basely  win 
The  prize  of  renegades.    Nay,  will  not  choose — 
Is  there  a  choice  for  strong  souls  to  be  weak? 
For  meu  erect  to  crawl  like  hissing  snakes  ? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  163 

I  choose  not— I  am  Zarca.    Let  him  choose 
Who  halts  and  wavei's,  haviug  appetite 
To  feed  ou  garbage.    You,  my  child— are  you 
Ilaltiug  aud  wavering? 

Fepat-ma.  {raisi)ig  her  head). 

Say  what  is  my  task. 

Zabca. 
To  be  the  augel  of  a  homeless  tribe: 
To  help  me  bless  a  race  taught  by  uo  prophet 
And  make  their  nniiie,  now  but  a  badge  of  scorn, 
A  glorious  banner  floating  in  their  midst, 
Stirring  the  air  they  breathe  with  impulses 
Of  generous  pride,  exalting  fellowship 
Until  it  soars  to  magnanimity. 
I'll  guide  my  brethren  forth  to  their  new  land, 
Where  they  shall  plant  aud  sow  and  reap  their  own, 
Serving  each  other's  needs,  and  so  be  spurred 
To  skill  in  all  tlie  arts  that  succor  life; 
Where  we  may  kindle  our  lirst  altar-fire 
Prom  settled  hearths,  and  call  our  Holy  Place 
The  hearth  that  binds  us  in  one  family. 
That  land  awaits  them:  they  await  their  chief— 
Me  who  am  prisoned.    All  depends  on  you. 

Fj5I)ai,m,v  [rising  to  her  full  height,  and  looking  solemnly  at  Zaboa). 
Father,  your  child  is  ready  !    She  will  not 
Forsake  her  kindred  :  she  will  brave  all  scorn 
Sooner  than  scorn  herself.    Let  Spaniards  all. 
Christians,  Jews,  Moors,  shoot  out  the  lip  and  say, 
"Lo,  the  first  hero  in  a  tribe  of  thieves." 
Is  it  not  written  so  of  them  ?    They,  too. 
Were  slaves,  lost,  wandering,  sunk  beneath  a  curse, 
Till  Moses,  Christ,  and  Mahomet  were  born. 
Till  beings  lonely  in  their  greatness  lived. 
And  lived  to  save  the  people.    Father,  listen. 
The  Duke  to-morrow  weds  me  secretly : 
But  straight  he  will  present  me  a'  'lis  wife 
To  all  his  household,  cavaliers  and  dames 
And  noble  pages.    Then  I  will  declare 
Before  them  all,  "I  am  his  daughter,  his, 
The  Gypsy's,  owner  of  this  Golden  badge." 
Theu  I  shall  win  your  freedom  ;  then  the  Duke — 
Why,  he  will  be  your  sou  !— will  send  you  forth 
With  aid  and  honors.     Then,  before  all  eyes 
I'll  clasp  this  badge  on  you,  and  lift  my  brow 
For  you  to  kiss  it,  saying  by  that  sign, 
"I  glory  in  my  father."    This,  to-inorrow. 

Zakoa. 

A  woman's  dream— who  thinks  by  smiling  well 
To  ripen  figs  in  frost.    What!  marry  first. 
And  then  i)roclaim  your  birth  ?    Enslave  yourself 
To  use  your  freedom?    Share  another's  name, 
Then  treat  it  as  you  will?    How  will  that  tunc 
King  in  your  bridegroom's  cars— that  sudden  song 
Of  triumph  in  your  Gypsy  father? 


164  TIIE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

Fbuaima  (discouraged). 

Nay, 

I  meant  not  so.    We  marry  hastily— 
Yet  there  is  time— there  will  be:— in  less  space 
Than  he  can  take  to  look  at  me,  I'll  speak 
And  tell  him  all.    Oh,  I  am  not  afraid  ! 
His  love  for  me  is  stronger  than  all  liatc  ; 
Nay,  stronger  than  my  love,  which  cannot  sway 
Demons  tliat  haunt  me— tempt  me  to  rebel. 
Were  he  Fedalma  and  1  Silva,  he 
Could  love  confession,  prayers,  and  tonsured  monks 
If  my  soul  craved  them.    He  will  never  hate 
The  race  that  bore  him  what  he  loves  tlie  most. 
I  shall  but  do  more  stroni;ly  what  I  will. 
Having  his  will  to  help  me.    And  to-morrow. 
Father,  as  surely  as  this  heart  shall  beat, 
You— every  Gypsy  chained,  shall  be  set  free. 
Zakoa.  [coming  nearer  to  her,  and  laying  his  hand  on  her  shoulder). 
Too  late,  too  poor  a  service  that,  my  child ! 
Not  so  the  woman  who  would  save  her  tribe 
Must  help  its  heroes— not  by  wordy  breath, 
By  easy  prayers  strona;  in  a  lover's  ear, 
By  showering  wreaths  and  sweets  and  wafted  kisses, 
And  then,  when  all  the  smiling  work  is  done. 
Turning  to  rest  upon  her  down  again, 
And  whisper  languid  pity  for  her  race 
Upon  the  bosom  of  her  alien  spouse. 
Not  to  such  petty  morsels  as  cau  fall 
'Twixt  stitch  and  stitch  of  silken  broidery, 
Such  miracles  of  mitred  saints  who  pause 
Beneath  their  gilded  canopy  to  heal 
A  man  sun-stricken:  not  to  such  trim  merit 
As  soils  its  dainty  shoes  for  charity 
And  simpers  meekly  at  tlie  pious  stain, 
But  never  trod  with  naked,  bleeding  feet 
Where  no  man  praised  it,  and  where  no  Church  blcsiicd: 
Not  to  such  almsdeeds  fit  for  holidays 
Were  you,  my  daughter,  consecrated- bound 
By  laws  that,  breaking,  you  will  dip  your  bread 
In  murdered  brother's  blood  and  call  it  sweet— 
When  you  were  born  beneath  the  dark  man's  tent, 
And  lifted  up  in  sight  of  all  your  tribe. 
Who  greeted  you  with  shouts  of  loyal  joy, 
Sole  offspring  of  the  chief  in  whom  they  trust 
As  in  the  oft-tried,  never-failing  (lint 
They  strike  tlieir  fire  from.    Other  work  is  yours. 

Fkdalma. 
What  work?— what  is  it  that  you  ask  of  me? 

Zakoa. 
A  work  as  pregnant  as  tlie  act  of  men 
Who  set  their  ships  aflame  and  spring  to  laud, 

A  fatal  deed  .  .  . 

Fkdai.ma. 

Stay!  never  utter  it ! 

H  it  can  part  my  lot  from  his  whose  love 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  1G5 

Has  cliosen  mc.    Talk  not  of  oaths,  of  birth, 

Of  men  as  niimciotis  as  the  dim  wliitc  star?^ — 

As  cold  and  distant,  too,  for  my  heart's  pulse. 

No  ills  on  earth,  though  you  should  count  them  up 

With  grains  to  make  a  mouutain,  can  outweif;h 

For  nie,  his  ill  who  is  my  t-upreme  love. 

All  sorrows  else  are  but  imagined  flames, 

Making  me  shudder  at  an  nnfelt  smart ; 

}5ut  his  imagined  sorrow  is  a  fire 

That  scorches  me. 

Zauca. 

I  know,  I  know  it  well — 
The  first  young,  passionate  wail  of  spirits  called 
To  some  great  destiny.    In  vain,  my  daughter  I 
Lay  the  young  eagle  in  what  nest  you  will, 
The  cry  and  swoop  of  eagles  overhead 
Vibrate  i)rophetic  in  its  kindred  frame, 
And  make  it  spread  its  wings  and  poise  itself 
For  the  eagle's  flight.     Hear  what  you  have  to  do. 
(Fedai.ma  standfi  half  averted,  an  if  she  dreaded  the  effect  of  his  looks  awl 

u'ords.) 
My  comrades  even  now  file  off  their  chains 
In  a  low  turret  by  the  battlements, 
Where  we  were  locked  with  slight  and  sleepy  guard — 
We  who  had  files  in  our  shaggy  hair. 
And  i)ossible  ropes  that  waited  but  our  will 
In  half  our  garments.    Oh,  the  Moorish  blood 
Runs  thick  and  warm  to  tis,  though  thinned  by  chrism. 
I  found  a  friend  among  onr  jailers— one 
Who  loves  the  Gypsy  as  the  ]SIoor's  alii'. 
I  know  the  secrets  of  this  fortress.    Listen. 
Hard  by  yon  terrace  is  a  narrow  stair, 
Cut  in  the  living  rock,  and  at  one  point 
In  its  slow  straggling  cnuisc  it  branches  off 
Towards  a  low  wooden  door,  that  art  has  bossed 
To  such  unevenness  it  seems  one  piece 
With  the  rongh-hewn  rock.    Open  that  door,  it  leads 
Through  a  broad  passage  burrowed  under  grouud 
A  good  half-mile  out  to  the  open  plain : 
Made  for  escape,  in  dire  extremity 
From  siege  or  burning,  of  the  house's  wealth 
In  women  or  in  gold.    To  find  that  door 
Needs  one  who  knows  the  number  of  the  steps 
Just  to  the  turning-point;  to  open  it. 
Needs  one  who  knows  the  secret  of  the  bolt. 
You  have  that  secret:  you  will  ope  that  door, 
And  fly  with  us. 

Fedat.ma  {receding  a  little,  and  gatherimj  heraclf  up  in  an  attitude  of  resolve  oppo- 
site to  Zahca). 

No,  I  will  never  fly ! 
Never  forsake  that  chief  half  of  my  soul 
Where  lies  my  love.    I  swear  to  set  you  free. 
Ask  for  no  more;  it  is  not  possible. 
Father,  my  soul  is  not  too  base  to  ring 
At  touch  of  your  great  thoughts;  nay,  in  my  blood 


166  TIIK  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

There  streams  the  sense  viiispcnkablc  of  kind, 

As  leopard  feels  at  ease  with  leopard.     But — 

Look  at  these  haiid.s!     Yon  say  when  they  were  little 

They  played  about  the  .i;old  upon  your  neck. 

I  do  believe  it,  for  their  tiny  pulse 

Made  record  of  it  in  the  inmost  coil 

Of  pirowinf;  memory.    But  see  them  now! 

Oh,  they  have  made  fresh  record;  twined  themselves 

With  other  throbbing  hands  whose  piilscs  feed 

Not  memories  only  but  a  blended  life — 

Life  that  will  bleed  to  death  if  it  be  severed. 

Have  pity  on  me,  father!    Wait  the  morning; 

Say  you  will  wait  the  morning.     I  will  win 

Your  freedom  openly:  you  shall  go  forth 

With  aid  and  honors.    Silva  will  deny 

Nought  to  my  asking  .  .  . 

Zakca  (with  conlemptuoiis  decision). 
Till  yon  ask  him  nug^it 
Wherein  he  is  powerless.     Soldiers  even  now 
Murmur  against  him  that  he  risks  the  town, 
And  forfeits  all  the  prizes  of  a  foray 
To  get  his  bridal  pleasure  with  a  bride 
Too  low  for  him.     They'll  murmur  more  and  louder 
If  captives  of  our  pith  and  sinew,  fit 
For  all  the  work  the  Spaniard  hates,  are  freed — 
Now,  too,  when  Spanish  hands  are  scanty.     What, 
Turn  Gypsies  loose  instead  of  hanging  them  ! 
'Tis  flat  against  the  edict.    Nay,  perchanee 
Murmurs  aloud  may  turn  to  silent  threats 
Of  some  well-sharpened  dagger;   for  your  Duke 
Has  to  his  heir  a  pious  cousin,  who  deems 
The  Cross  were  better  served  if  he  were  Duke. 
Such  good  you'll  work  your  lover  by  your  prayers. 

Fkdalma. 

Then,  I  will  fi'ee  you  now  !    You  shall  be  safe, 
Nor  he  be  blamed,  save  for  his  love  to  me. 
I  will  declare  wliat  I  have  done:  the  deed 
May  put  our  marriage  ofT  .  .  , 

Zarca. 

Ay,  till  the  time 
When  you  shall  be  a  queen  in  Africa, 
And  he  be  prince  enough  to  sue  for  you. 
You  cannot  free  us  and  come  back  to  him. 

Fk1)AT.MA. 

And  why? 

Zaeca. 
I  would  compel  you  to  go  forth. 

FiniAI.MA. 

You  tell  me  that? 

ZAr.o.\. 
Yes,  for  I'd  have  you  choose ; 
Though,  being  of  the  blood  you  are— my  blood— 
You  have  no  right  to  choose. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY,  167 


Fkdalma. 

I  only  owe 
A  cliuighter'8  debt;  I  was  not  boin  a  slave. 

Zaroa. 
No,  not  a  slave;  but  you  were  born  to  reign. 
'Tis  a  compulsion  of  a  higlicr  sorr, 
Whose  fetters  are  the  net  invisible 
That  hold  all  life  together.    Royal  deeds 
May  make  long  destinies  for  multitudes, 
And  you  are  called  to  do  them.     You  belong 
Not  to  the  petty  round  of  circumstance 
That  makes  a  woman's  lot,  but  to  your  tribe, 
Who  trust  iu  me  and  in  my  blood  with  trust 
That  men  call  blind  ;  but  it  is  only  blind 
As  unyeaned  reason  is,  that  grows  and  stirs 
Within  the  womb  of  superstition, 

Fedalma. 

No! 
I  belong  to  liim  wlio  loves  me— whom  I  love— 
Who  chose  me — whom  I  chose — to  whom  I  pledged 
A  woman's  truth.    And  that  is  nature  too, 
Issuing  a  fresher  law  than  laws  of  birth. 

Zakca, 
Unmake  yourself,  then,  from  a  Ziucala — 
Unmake  yourself  from  being  child  of  mine! 
Take  holy  water,  cross  your  dark  skin  white; 
Round  yonr  proud  eyes  to  foolish  kitten  looks; 
Walk  mincingly,  and  smirk,  and  twitch  your  robe: 
Unmake  yourself — dofl'  all  the  eagle  plumes 
And  be  a  parrot,  chained  to  a  ring  that  slips 
Upon  a  Spaniard's  thumb,  at  will  of  his 
That  you  should  prattle  o'er  his  words  again! 
Get  a  small  heart  that  flutters  at  the  smiles 
Of  that  plump  penitent,  that  greedy  saint 
Who  breaks  all  treaties  in  the  name  of  God, 
Saves  souls  by  coniiscation,  sends  to  heaven 
The  altar-fumes  of  burning  heretics. 
And  chaflfers  with  the  Lcvite  for  the  gold; 
Holds  Gypsies  beasts  tiufit  for  sacrifice, 
80  sweeps  them  out  like  worms  alive  or  dead. 
Go,  trail  your  gold  and  velvet  in  her  court ! — 
A  conscious  Zincala,  smile  at  your  rare  luck, 
While  half  your  brethren  ... 

Fedai.ma. 

I  am  not  so  vile ! 
It  is  not  to  such  mockeries  that  I  cling, 
Not  to  the  flaring  tow  of  gala-lights  ; 
It  is  to  him— my  love — the  face  of  daj'. 

Zacoa. 
What,  will  you  part  him  from  the  air  he  breathes, 
Never  inhale  with  him  although  you  kiss  him? 
Will  you  adopt  a  soul  without  its  thoughts. 
Or  grasp  a  life  apart  from  flesh  and  blood? 


168  THE  srANisn  gypsy. 

Till  then  you  ciiiiiiot  wotl  a  Ppaiiish  Diiko 
And  not  \vcd  sliamo  at  mention  of  youf  race, 
And  not  wed  liai-dne>n  to  tlieii-  niiHerios— 
Nay,  not  wed  murdei-.     Wonld  you  save  my  lil'e 
Yet  stab  my  purpose?  maim  my  every  limb, 
Put  out  my  eyes,  and  turn  me  loose  to  feed? 
Is  that  salvation?  rather  diink  my  blood. 
That  child  of  mine  who  weds  my  enemy- 
Adores  a  God  who  took  no  heed  of  Gypsies- 
Forsakes  her  people,  leaves  their  poverty 
To  join  the  luckier  crowd  that  mocks  their  wocs- 
That  child  of  mine  is  doubly  murderess, 
Murdering  her  father's  hope,  her  people's  trust. 
Such  drau;,'lits  are  mingled  in  your  cup  of  lovel 
And  when  you  have  become  a  thing  so  poor, 
Your  life  is  all  a  fashion  without  law 
Save  frail  conjecture  of  a  changinn;  wish, 
Your  worshipped  sun,  your  smiling  face  of  day, 
Will  turn  to  cloudiness,  and  you  will  shiver 
In  your  thin  liiicry  of  vain  desire. 
-  Men  call  his  passion  madness;  and  he,  too, 
May  lenrn  to  think  it  madness:  'tis  a  thought 

Of  ducal  sanity. 

Fkdai.ma. 

No,  he  is  true '. 
And  if  I  part  from  him  I  part  from  joy. 
Oh,  it  was  morning  with  us,  I  seemed  young. 
But  now  I  know  I  am  an  aged  sorrow— 
My  people's  sorrow.    Father,  since  I  am  yours— 
Since  I  must  walk  an  unslain  sacrifice, 
Carrying  the  knife  within  me,  quivering- 
Put  cords  upon  me,  drag  mc  to  the  doom 
My  birth  has  laid  upon  me.    See,  I  kneel  : 
I  cannot  will  to  go. 

Zaroa. 

Will  then  to  stay'. 
Say  you  will  take  your  better,  painted  such 
By  blind  desii-e,  and  choose  the  hideous  worse 
For  thousands  who  were  happier  but  for  you. 
My  thirty  followers  are  assembled  now 
Without  this  terrace:  I  your  father  wait 
That  yon  may  lead  us  fiuth  to  liberty- 
Restore  me  to  my  tribe — five  hundred  men 
Whom  I  alone  can  save,  alone  can  rule. 
And  plant  them  as  a  mighty  nation's  seed. 
Why,  vagabonds  who  clnstercd  round  one  man, 
Their  voice  of  God,  their  prophet  and  their  king, 
Twice  grew  to  empire  on  the  teeming  shores 
Of  Africa,  and  sent  new  royalties 
To  feed  afresh  the  Arab  sway  in  Spain. 
My  vagabonds  are  a  seed  more  generous, 
Quick  as  the  serpent,  loving  as  the  hound, 
And  beautiful  as  disinherited  gods. 
They  have  a  promised  land  beyond  the  sea : 
Tliere  I  may  lead  them,  raise  my  standard,  call 
The  wandering  Zincali  to  that  new  home. 
And  make  a  nation— bring  light,  order,  law, 


THE   SPANISH  GYPSY.  169 

Instead  of  chaos.    You,  my  only  heir, 
Ave  called  to  leiijn  for  me  wheu  I  am  gone. 
Now  choose  your  deed :  to  save  of  to  destroy. 
You,  a  born  Zuicala,  yon,  fortunate 
Above  yiiui-  fellows— you  who  hold  a  curse 
Or  blessiui:  in  the  hollow  of  your  hand — 
Say  you  will  loose  that  hand  from  fellowship. 
Let  <;o  the  rescuing  rope,  hurl  all  the  tribes, 
Children  and  countless  beings  yet  to  come, 
Down  from  tlie  upward  path  of  li'j;ht  and  joy, 
Back  to  the  dark  and  marshy  wilderness 
Where  life  is  nouglit  but  blind  tenacity 
Of  that  which  is.    Say  you  will  curse  your  race' 

Fi'.DAi,.v\  {risinj  ami  stretching  out  her  arms  in  deprecation). 

No,  no — I  will  not  say  it — I  will  go! 
Father,  I  choose!    I  will  not  take  a  heaven 
Haunted  by  shrieks  of  far-off  misery. 
This  deed  and  I  have  ripened  with  the  hours: 
It  is  a  part  of  me— a  wakened  thoni,'ht 
That,  rising  like  a  giant,  masters  mo. 
And  grows  into  a  doom.    O  mother  life. 
That  seemed  to  nourish  mo  so  tenderly. 
Even  in  the  womb  you  vowed  me  to  the  Are, 
Hung  on  my  soul  the  burden  of  men's  hopes. 
And  pledged  me  to  redeem!— I'll  pay  the  debt. 
You  gave  me  strength  that  I  should  pour  it  all 
Into  this  anguish.    I  can  never  shrink 
Back  into  bliss — my  heart  has  growu  too  big 
With  things  that  might  be.    Father,  I  will  go. 
I  will  strip  off  these  gems.     Some  happier  bride 
Shall  wear  them,  since  Fedalma  would  be  dowered 
With  nought  but  curses,  dowered  with  misery 
Of  men— of  women,  who  have  hearts  to  bleed 
As  hers  is  bleeding. 

[She  siyiks  on  a  seat,  and  begins  to  take  oJT  her  jewels.} 
Now,  good  gems,  we  part. 
Speak  of  me  always  tenderly  to  Silva. 

IShe  2}auses,  turning  to  Zakoa.) 
O  father,  will  the  women  of  our  tribe 
Suffer  as  I  do,  in  the  years  to  come 
When  you  have  made  them  great  in  Afiica? 
Redeemed  from  ignorant  ills  only  to  feel 
A  conscious  woe?    Then — is  it  worth  the  pains? 
Were  it  not  better  when  we  reach  that  shore 
To  raise  a  funeral-pile  and  perish  all. 
So  closing  up  a  myriad  avenues 
To  misery  yet  unwrought?    My  soul  is  faint — 
Will  these  sharp  pangs  buy  any  certain  good? 

Zakoa. 
Nay,  never  falter:   no  great  deed  is  done 
By  falterers  who  ask  for  certainty. 
No  good  is  certain,  but  the  steadfast  mind. 
The  undivided  will  to  seek  the  good  : 
'Tis  that  compels  the  elements,  and  wrings 
99*  H"* 


270  THE   SPANISH  GYPSY. 

A  hnmnu  mnsic.  from  the  iudiftercnt  nil-. 
The  greatest  gift  the  hero  leaves  his  race 
Is  to  have  been  a  hero.    Sny  wc  fail  !— 
We  feed  the  hi-h  trailitioii  .>f  the  world, 
Ami  leave  our  yi)irit  in  our  ehiklrcu's  breasts. 

Fr.iiAi.MA  {nncla-'iping  Iwr  jcwdled  belt,  and  throvniifj  it  d(nini). 

Yes,  say  that  we  shall  fail !    1  will  not  count 
On  nught  but  being  faithful.     I  will  take 
Tliis  yearning  self  of  mine  and  strangle  it. 
I  will  not  be  half-hearted:  never  yet 
Fcdalma  did  aught  with  a  wavering  soul. 
Die,  my  young  joy -die,  all  my  hungry  hopes— 
The  milk  you  cry  for  from  the  breast  of  life 
Is  thick  with  curs^es.    Oh,  all  fatness  here 
Snatches  its  meat  from  leanness— feeds  on  graves. 
I  will  seek  nothing  but  to  shun  base  joy. 
The  saints  were  cowards  who  stood  by  to  poc 
Christ  crucified:   they  should  have  flung  Ihenit^clves 
Upon  the  Roman  spe.-irs,  and  died  iu  vain— 
The  grandest  death,  to  die  in  vaiu— for  love 
Greater  than  sways  the  forces  of  the  world  ! 
That  death  shall  be  my  bridegroom.    I  will  wed 
The  curse  that  blights  my  people.     Father,  come ! 

Zakca. 

No  curse  has  fallen  on  us  till  wc  cease 
To  help  each  other.    You,  if  you  arc  false 
To  that  liret  fellowship,  lay  on  the  curse. 
Ihit  write  now  to  the  Spaniard;  briefly  say 
That  I,  your  father,  came;  that  you  obeyed 
Tlie  fate  which  made  you  Zincala,  as  his  fate 
Made  him  a  Spanish  duke  and  Christian  knight, 
lie  must  uot  think  .  .  . 

Fl'-DALMA. 

Yos,  I  will  write,  but  he— 
Oh,  he  would  know  it— he  would  never  think 
The  chain  that  dragged  me  from  him  could  he  aught 
But  scorching  iron  entering  in  my  soul. 

{SJic  writes.) 
Silva,  sole  love — 7ui  came — vnj  father  came. 
I  am  the  daughter  of  the  Gypsy  chief 
Who  rnea')iH  to  be  tlie  savior  of  our  tribe. 
JJe  calU  on  m^  to  live  for  his  great  end. 
To  live  ?  nay,  die  for  it.     Fedalma  dies 
In  leaving  Silva  :  all  that  lives  henceforth 
Is  the  poor  Zincala.  {She  rises.) 

Father,  now  I  so 
To  wed  my  people's  lot. 

Zaroa. 

To  wed  a  crown. 
Our  peojde's  l()^^^y  lot  we  will  make  royal- 
Give  it  a  country,  homes,  and  monuments 
Hold  sacred  through  the  lofty  memories 
That  we  shaH  leave  behind  us.     Come,  my  Queen  I 


THE   SPANISH  GYPSY.  171 


Fedalma. 


Stay,  my  betrothal  ring! — one  kiss — fiirewcll! 
O  love,  you  were  my  crown.     No  other  crown 
Is  aught  but  thorus  on  my  poor  woman's  ))row. 


BOOK  II. 

SiM'A  was  marching  liomeward  wliile  tlie  moon 

Still  shed  mild  brightness  like  the  far-off  hope 

Of  those  pale  virgin  lives  that  wait  and  pvixy. 

The  stars  thin-scattered  made  the  heavens  large, 

Bending  in  slow  procc-sion ;  in  the  east 

Emergent  from  the  dark  waves  of  the  hills, 

Seeming  a  little  sister  of  the  moon, 

Glowed  Venus  all  nnquenched.    Silvn,  in  haste, 

Exultant  and  yet  anxious,  urged  his  troop 

To  quiclc  and  quicker  march  :  he  had  delight 

In  forward  stretching  shadows,  in  the  gleams 

That  travelled  on  the  armor  of  the  van. 

And  in  the  many-hoofed  sound:    in  all  that  told 

Of  hurrying  movement  to  o'ertake  his  thought 

Already  in  Beduiar,  close  to  Fedalma, 

Leading  her  forth  a  wedded  bride,  fast  vowed. 

Defying  Father  Isidor.    His  glance 

Took  in  with  much  content  the  priest  who  rode 

Firm  in  his  saddle,  stalwart  and  broad-backed, 

Crisp-curled,  and  comfortalily  secular, 

Right  in  the  front  of  him.     But  by  degrees 

Stealthily  faint,  disturbing  with  slow  loss 

That  showed  not  yet  full  promise  of  a  gain. 

The  light  was  changing,  and  the  watch  intense 

Of  moon  and  stars  seemed  weary,  shivering: 

The  sharp  white  brightness  passed  from  off  the  rocks 

Carrying  the  shadows:   beauteous  Night  lay  dead 

Under  the  jiall  of  twilight,  and  the  love-star 

Sickened  and  shrank.    The  troop  was  winding  now 

Upward  to  where  a  pass  between  the  peaks 

Seemed  like  an  opened  gate — to  Silva  seemed 

An  onler-gate  of  heaven,  for  through  that  pass 

They  entered  his  own  valley,  near  Bedmar. 

Sudden  within  the  pass  a  horseman  rose. 

One  instant  dark  ui)on  the  banner  pale 

Of  i-ock-cut  sky,  the  next  in  motion  swift 

With  liat  and  plume  high  shaken— ominous. 

Silva  had  dreamed  his  future,  and  the  dream 

Held  not  this  messenger.    A  minute  more — 

It  was  his  friend  Don  Alvar  whom  he  saw 

Reining  his  horse  up,  face  to  face  with  him, 

Sad  as  the  twilight,  all  his  clothes  ill-girt— 

As  if  he  had  been  roused  to  see  one  die, 

And  brought  the  news  to  liim  whom  death  had  robbed. 

Silva  believed  he  saw  the  worst — the  town 

Stormed  by  the  infldcl— or,  could  it  be 


173  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

Feclnlina  drafrgecl  ?— no,  there  was  not  yet  time. 
But  with  a  ni;ir!)lo  f:ice,  ho  only  said, 
"What  evil,  AlvarV" 

"Wliat  this  paper  speaks." 
It  was  Fedalina'a  letlcr  foliled  close 
And  mute  as  yet  for  Silva.    But  liis  friend 
Keci)ing  it  still  sharp-pinched  aj^alnst  his  breast, 
"  It  will  smite  hard,  my  lord  :   a  private  grief. 
I  would  not  have  you  pause  to  read  it  here. 
Let  us  ride  on — we  use  the  moments  best, 
Reaching  the  town  with  speed.    Tlic  smaller  ill 
Is  that  our  Gypsy  prisoners  have  escaped." 
"No  more.    Give  me  the  paper — nay,  I  know — 
'Twill  make  no  diflerenco.    Bid  them  march  on  faster." 
Silva  pushed  forward— held  the  paper  cruslied 
Close  in  his  riglit.     "They  h.ave  imiirisoned  her," 
He  said  to  Alvar  in  low,  hard-cut  tones, 
Like  a  dream-speech  of  shimbcring  revenge. 
"No — when  they  came  to  fetch  her  she  was  gone." 
Svi'ift  as  the  riglit  touch  on  a  spring,  that  word 
Made  Silva  read  the  letter.     She  was  gone  ! 
But  not  into  locked  darkness — only  gone 
Into  free  air— where  he  might  find  her  yet. 
The  bitter  hjss  had  triumph  in  it — what ! 
They  would  have  seized  her  with  their  lioly  claws 
The  Prior's  sweet  morsel  of  despotic  hate 
Was  snatched  from  off  liis  lips.    This  misery 
Had  yet  a  taste  of  joy. 

But  she  was  gone! 
The  sun  had  risen,  and  in  the  castle  walls 
The  light  grew  strong  and  stronger.    Silva  walked 
Through  the  long  corridor  where  dimness  yc-t 
Cherished  a  lingering,  flickering,  dying  hope: 
Fedalma  still  was  there — he  could  not  see 
The  vacant  place  that  once  her  presence  filled. 
Can  we  believe  that  the  dear  dead  aie  gone? 
Love  in  sad  weeds  forgets  the  funeral  day, 
Opens  the  chamber  door  alid  almost  smiles — 
Then  sees  the  sunbeams  i)ierce  athwart  the  bed 
Where  the  pale  face  is  not.    So  Silva's  joy, 
Like  the  sweet  habit  of  caressing  hands 
That  seek  the  memory  of  another  hand, 
Still  lived  on  fitfully  in  spite  of  words. 
And,  numbing  thought  with  vague  i!hisi(m,  dulled 
The  slow  and  steadfast  beat  of  certainty. 
But  in  the  rooms  inexorable  light 
Streamed  through  the  open  window  where  she  fled. 
Streamed  on  the  belt  and  coronet  thrown  down- 
Mute  witnesses— sought  out  the  typic  ring 
That  sparkled  on  the  crimson,  solitary, 
Wounding  him  like  a  word.    O  hateful  light  I 
It  filled  the  chambers  with  her  absence,  glared 
On  ail  the  motionless  things  her  hand  had  touched, 
Motionless  all— save  where  old  Inez  lay 
Sunk  on  the  floor  holding  her  rosary. 
Making  its  shadow  treml)Ie  with  her  fear. 
And  Silva  passed  her  by  because  she  grieved: 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  173 

It  was  the  lute,  the  gems,  the  pictured  heads, 

He  longed  to  crush,  because  they  made  uo  sign 

But  of  insistence  that  she  was  not  there, 

She  who  had  filled  his  sight  and  hidden  them. 

He  went  forth  on  the  terrace  tow'rd  the  stairs, 

Saw  the  rained  petals  of  the  clstus  flowers 

Crushed  by  large  feet;  but  on  one  shady  spot 

Far  down  the  steps,  where  dampness  made  a  home. 

He  saw  a  footprint  delicate-slippered,  small. 

So  dear  to  him,  he  searched  for  sister-prints, 

Searched  in  tlie  rock-hewn  passage  with  a  lamp 

For  other  trace  of  her,  and  found  a  glove; 

But  not  Fedalma's.    Ic  was  Juan's  glove, 

Taseelled,  perfumed,  embroidered  with  his  name, 

A  gift  of  dames.    Th.en  Juan,  too,  was  gone? 

Full-mouthed  conjecture,  hurrying  through  the  tovvu, 

Had  spread  the  tale  already:   it  was  he 

That  helped  the  Gypsies'  flight.     He  talked  and  sang 

Of  nothing  but  the  Gypsies  and  Fedalma. 

He  drew  the  threads  together,  wove  the  plan; 

Had  lingered  out  by  moouliglit,  had  been  seeu 

Strolling,  as  was  his  wont,  within  the  walls, 

Humming  liis  ditties.     So  Don  Alvar  told, 

Conveying  outside  rumor.    But  the  Duke, 

Making  of  haughtiness  a  visor  closed. 

Would  show  uo  agitated  front  in  quest 

or  small  disclosures.     VVliat  her  writing  bore 

Had  been  enough.    He  kuew  that  she  was  gone. 

Knew  why. 

"The  Duke,"  some  said,  "will  send  a  force, 
Retake  the  prisoners,  and  bring  back  his  bride." 
But  others,  winking,  "Nay,  her  wedding  dress 
Would  be  the  san  benito.    'Tis  a  fight 
Between  the  Duke  and  Prior.     Wise  bets  will  choose 
The  churchman:   he's  the  iron,  and  the  Duke  .  .  ." 
"Is  a  fine  piece  of  pottery,"  said  mine  host. 
Softening  the  sarcasm  with  a  biaud  regret. 

There  was  the  thread  that  in  the  new-made  knot 
Of  obstinate  circumstance  seemed  hardest  drawn, 
Ve.xed  most  the  sense  of  Silva,  in  these  liours 
Of  fresh  and  angry  pain — there,  in  that  fight 
Against  a  foe  whose  sword  was  magical. 
His  shield  invisible  terrors — against  a  foe 
Who  stood  as  if  upon  the  smoking  mount 
Ordaining  ]dagues.     All  else,  Fedalma's  flight. 
The  father's  claim,  her  Gypsy  birth  disclosed, 
Were  momentary  crosses,  hinderances 
A  Spanish  noble  might  despise.    This  Chief 
Might  s'.ill  be  treated  with,  would  not  refuse 
A  proffered  ransom,  which  would  better  serve 
Gyjisy  prosperity,  give  him  more  power 
Over  his  tribe,  than  any  fatherhood : 
Nay,  all  the  father  in  him  must  i>lead  loud 
For  marriage  of  his  daughter  where  she  loved — 
Her  love  being  placed  so  high  and  lustrously. 
The  Gyjisy  chieftain  had  foreseen  a  price 


174  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

Tliat  would  be  paid  liim  for  liis  daughter's  dower- 
Might  toon  give  signs.    Oh,  all  his  purpose  lay 
Face  upward.     8ilva  here  felt  .strong,  and  smiled. 
What  could  a  Spanish  noble  not  command ? 
lie  oidy  helped  the  C^ueen,  bei-.-mse  he  chose; 
Could  war  on  Spaniards,  and  could  spare  the  Moor; 
Buy  justice,  or  defeat  it — if  he  would  : 
Was  loyal,  not  from  weakness,  but  from  strength 
Of  high  resolve  to  use  his  biriluight  well. 
For  nobles  too  are  gods,  like  Emijerors, 
Accept  perforce  their  own  divinity, 
And  wonder  at  the  virtue  of  their  touch, 
Till  obstinate  resistance  shakes  their  creed, 
Shattering  that  self  whose  wholeness  is  not  rounded 
Save  in  the  plastic  soids  of  other  men. 
Don  Silva  had  been  suckled  in  that  creed 
(A  high-tanght  speculative  noble  else), 
Held  it  absurd  as  foolish  argument 
If  any  failed  in  deference,  was  too  proud 
Not  to  be  courteous  to  so  jjoor  a  knave 
As  one  who  knew  not  necessary  truths 
Of  birth  and  dues  of  rank;    but  cross  his  will. 
The  miracle-working  will,  his  rage  leaped  out 
As  by  a  right  divine  to  rage  more  fatal 
Than  a  mere  mortal  man's.    And  now  that  will 
Had  met  a  stronger  adversary — strong 
As  awful  ghosts  are  whom  we  cannot  touch, 
While  they  clutch  hs,  subtly  as  poisoued  air, 
In  deep-laid  libres  of  inherited  fear 
That  lie  below  all  courage. 

Silva  said, 
"She  is  not  lost  to  me,  might  still  be  mine 
But  for  the  Inquisition— the  dire  hand 
That  waits  to  clutch  her  with  a  hideous  grasp 
Not  passionate,  human,  living,  but  a  gras^]) 
As  In  the  death-throe  when  the  human  soul 
Departs  and  leaves  force  unrelenting,  locked, 
Not  to  be  loosened  save  by  slow  decay 
That  frets  the  universe.    Father  Isidor 
Has  willed  it  so:    his  phial  dropped  the  oil 
To  catch  the  air-borue  motes  of  idle  slander; 
He  fed  the  fascinated  gaze  that  clung 
Kound  all  her  movements,  frank  as  growths  of  spring, 
With  the  new  hateful  interest  of  suspiciou. 
What  barrier  is  this  Gypsy  ?  a  mere  gate 
I'll  find  the  key  for.    Tlie  one  barrier, 
The  tightening  cord  that  winds  about  my  limbs, 
Is  this  kind  uncle,  this  imjierious  saint, 
He  who  will  save  me,  guard  me  from  myseif. 
And  he  can  work  his  will:   I  have  no  help 
Save  reptile  secrecy,  and  no  revenge 
Save  that  I  will  do  what  he  schemes  to  hinder. 
Ay,  secrecy  and  disobedience — these 
No  tyranny  can  master.    Disobey  ! 
You  may  divide  the  universe  with  God, 
Keeping  your  will  unbent,  and  hold  a  world 
Where  He  is  not  supreme.    The  Prior  shall  know  Itl 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  175 

Ilis  will  shall  breed  resistance:  he  shall  do 
The  thing  he  would  not,  further  what  he  hates 
By  hardening  uiy  resolve." 

But  'ucath  Uiis  speech — 
Defiant,  hectoring,  the  more  passionate  voice 
or  many-blended  consciousness — there  breathed 
Miirnuirs  of  doubt,  the  weakness  of  a  self 
That  is  not  one  ;   denies  and  yet  believes ; 
Protests  with  passion,  "This  is  natural"— 
Yet  owns  the  other  still  weie  truer,  better, 
Conld  nature  follow  it:   a  self  disturbed 
By  budding  growths  of  reason  premature 
That  breed  disease.    With  all  his  outilmig  rage 
Silva  half  shrank  l)efore  the  steadfast  raau 
Whose  life  was  one  compacted  whole,  a  realm 
Where  the  rnle  changed  not,  and  the  law  was  strong. 
Then  that  reluctant  homage  stirred  new  hate. 
And  gave  rebellion  au  iuteuser  will. 

But  soon  this  inward  strife  the  slow-paced  hours 

Slackened ;   and  the  soul  sank  with  hunger-pangs. 

Hunger  of  love.    Debate  was  swept  right  down 

By  certainty  of  loss  intolerable. 

A  little  loss!  only  a  dark-tressed  maid 

Who  had  no  heritage  save  her  beauteous  being  ! 

But  in  the  candor  of  her  virgin  eyes 

Saying,  I  love;   and  in  the  mystic  charm 

Of  her  "dear  presence,  Silva  found  a  heaven 

Where  faith  and  hope  were  drowned  as  stars  in  day. 

Fedalma  there,  each  momentary  Now 

Seemed  a  whole  blest  existence,  a  full  cup 

That,  flowing  over,  asked  no  pouring  hand 

From  past  to  future.     All  the  world  was  hers. 

Splendor  was  but  the  herald  trumpet-note 

Of  her  imperial  coming  :   penury 

Vanished  before  her  as  before  a  gem, 

The  pledge  of  treasuries.    Fedaima  there, 

He  thought  all  loveliness  was  lovelier, 

She  crowning  it :  all  goodness  credible. 

Because  of  that  great  trust  her  goodness  bred. 

For  the  strong  current  of  the  passionate  love 

Which  urged  his  life  tow'rd  hers,  like  urgent  floods 

That  hurry  through  the  various-mingled  earth, 

Carried  within  its  stream  all  qualities 

Of  what  it  penetrated,  and  made  love 

Only  another  name,  as  Silva  was. 

For  the  whole  man  that  breathed  within  his  frame. 

And  she  was  gone.    Well,  goddesses  will  go ; 

But  for  a  noble  there  were  mortals  left 

Shaped  just  like  goddesses— O  hafenil  sweet! 

O  impudent  pleasure  that  should  dare  to  front 

With  vulgar  visage  memories  divine ! 

The  noble's  birthright  of  miraculous  will 

Turning  I  would  to  mttst  he,  spurning  all 

Oflcrcd  as  substitute  for  what  it  chose, 

Tightened  and  fixed  in  strain  irrevocable 

The  passionate  selection  of  that  love 


176  THE  SPANISU  GYPSY. 

Which  came  not  fli-st  but  as  all-conqncriug  last. 

Great  Love  has  many  attiibiitesi,  and  .slii'iues 

For  vai'ied  woi-tihij),  hut  his  force  divine 

Shows  nio.<t  its  niany-]iamed  fulness  in  tlic  man 

Whose  nature  muUitudinoiisly  mixed — 

Each  ardent  impulse  grai)[)ling  with  a  thouglit— 

IJesists  all  easy  gladness,  nil  content 

Save  mystic  rapture,  where  the  (luestioning  soul 

Flooded  witli  consciousness  of  good  tliat  is 

Finds  life  one  bounteous  answer.     So  it  was 

In  Silva's  nature,  Love  had  mastery  there. 

Not  as  u  holiday  ruler,  but  as  one 

Who  quells  a  tumult  iu  a  day  of  dread, 

A  welcomed  despot. 

O  all  com  forte  IS, 
All  soothing  things  that  bring  mild  ecstasy. 
Came  with  her  coming,  in  her  iiresoice  lived. 
Spring  afternoons,  when  delicate  shadows  fall 
Pencilled  upon  the  grass;  high  summer  morns 
When  while  light  rains  upon  the  quiet  sea 

And  corn-fields  flush  witli  ripeness;   odors  soft 

Dumb  vagrant  bliss  that  seems  to  seek  a  home 
And  find  it  deep  within,  'mid  stirrings  vague 
or  far-off  moments  when  our  life  was  fresli  ; 
All  sweetly-tempered  music,  gentle  change 
Of  sound,  form,  color,  as  on  wide  lagoons 
At  suuset  when  from  black  far-floating  prows 
Comes  a  clear  wafted  song;  all  exquisite  joy 
Of  a  subdued  desire,  like  some  strong  stream 
Made  placid  in  the  fulness  of  a  lake- 
All  came  with  her  sweet  presence,  for  she  brought 
The  love  supreme  which  gathers  to  its  realm 
All  powers  of  loving.    Subtle  nature's  hand 
Waked  with  a  tonch  the  far-linked  harmonies 
In  her  own  manifold  work.    Fedalma  (here, 
Fastidiousness  became  the  prelude  flue 
For  full  couteutmeut;  and  young  melancholy, 
Lost  for  its  origin,  seemed  but  the  pain 
Of  waiting  for  that  perfect  happiness. 
The  happiness  was  gone  ! 

He  sate  alone, 
ILiting  companionship  that  was  not  hers; 
Felt  bruised  with  hopeless  longing;   drank,  as  wine 
Illusions  of  what  had  been,  would  have  been  ; 
Weary  with  auger  and  a  strained  resolve, 
Sought  passive  happiness  in  waking  dreams. 
It  has  been  so  with  rulers,  emperors. 
Nay,  sages  who  held  secrets  of  great  Time, 
Shn/i-ing  his  hoary  nud  beneficent  life- 
Men  who  sate  throned  among  the  multitudes— 
They  have  sore  sickened  at  the  loss  of  one. 
Silva  sat  lonely  in  her  chamber,  leaned 
Where  she  had  leaned,  to  feel  the  evening  breath 
Shed  from  the  orange  trees  ;   when  suddenly 
His  grief  was  echoed  in  a  sad  young  voice 
Far  and  yet  near,  brought  by  aerial  wings. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  177 

The  world  is  great :  the  birds  all  fly  from  me, 
The  stars  are  golden  fruit  upon  a  tree 
All  out  of  reach  :  my  little  sister  went. 
And  I  am  lonely. 

The  uwrld  is  great :  I  tried  to  mount  the  hill 
Above  the  pines,  tohere  the  light  lies  so  still, 
Hilt  it  rose  higher  :  little  Lisa  went, 
A  nd  I  am  lonely. 

The  u'orld  is  great :  the  innd  comes  rushing  by, 
I  wonder  tohere  it  comes  from ;  sea-birds  cry 
And  hurt  my  heart:  my  little  sister  tcent, 
A  nd  I  am  lonely. 

The  world  is  great :  the  ^teopla  laugh  and  talk. 
And  make  loud  holiday:  how  fast  they  walk! 
I'm  lame,  they  push  me :  little  Lisa  we7it.. 
And  I  am  lonely. 

'Twas  Pablo,  like  the  wounded  spirit  of  song 

Pouring  melodious  jiaiu  to  cheat  the  hour 

For  idle  soldiers  in  the  castle  court. 

Dreamily  Silva  heard  and  hardly  felt 

The  song  was  outward,  rather  felt  it  part 

Of  his  own  aching,  like  the  lingering  day, 

Or  slow  and  mournful  cadence  of  the  bell. 

But  when  the  voice  had  ceased  he  longed  for  It, 

And  fretted  at  the  pause,  as  memory  frets 

When  words  that  made  its  body  fall  away 

And  leave  it  yearning  dumbly.    Silva  then 

Bethought  him  whence  the  voice  came,  framed  perforce 

Some  outward  image  of  a  life  not  his 

That  made  a  sorrowful  centre  to  the  world: 

A  boy  lame,  melancholy-eyed,  who  bore 

A  viol— yes,  that  very  child  he  saw 

This  morning  eating  roots  by  the  gateway — saw 

As  one  fresh-ruined  sees  and  spells  a  name 

And  knows  not  what  he  does,  yet  tinds  it  writ 

Full  in  the  inner  record.    Harlc,  aga'n  ! 

The  voice  and  viol.     Silva  called  his  thought 

To  guide  his  ear  and  track  tnc  travelling  sound 

O  bird  that  used  to  press 

Thy  head  against  my  cheek 

With  touch  that  seemed  to  speak 
And  ask  a  tender  "?/<>s" — 
Ay  de  mi,  my  bird  ! 

O  tender  downy  breast 

And  warmly  beating  heart. 

That  beating  seemed  a  part 
Of  me  who  gave  it  rest — 

Ay  de  mi,  viy  bird! 

The  western  court!    The  singer  might  be  seen 
From  the  upper  gallery:   quick  the  Duke  was  there 
Looking  ui)on  the  court  as  on  a  stage. 
Men  eased  of  armor,  stretched  upon  the  ground. 


TnE  SPANISn  OYrSY. 

Gambling  by  pnatchcs;  fihcphcrds  from  the  hills 

Who  l)rou'^lit  tlicii-  blcatini;  fiiciuls  for  FlaiiKliter ;  grooms 

SlioulcUniiic;  loose  liariiess ;  lealhci-iiproncil  FmitliH, 

Traders  wiih  wares,  grcen-suitccl  scrviiig-mcii, 

Made  a  round  audience ;  and  in  llicir  midst 

Stood  little  Pablo,  pouring  forth  his  song, 

Just  as  the  Duke  had  pictured.     But  the  song 

Was  strangely  couipanied  by  Koldan's  play 

With  the  swift  gleaming  balls,  and  now  was  crnshed 

By  peals  of  laughter  at  grave  Annibal, 

Who  carrying  stick  and  purse  o'erturned  the  pence, 

Making  mistake  by  rule.    Silva  had  thought 

To  melt  hard  bitter  grief  by  fellowship 

With  the  world-sorrow  trembling  in  his  ear 

In  Pablo's  voice;  had  meant  to  give  command 

For  the  boy's  presence ;  but  this  company, 

This  mountebaidi  and  monkey,  must  l)e — stay ! 

J\'o(  be  excepted — must  be  ordered  too 

Into  his  [irivate  presence ;  they  had  brought 

Suggestion  of  a  ready  shapen  tool 

Q'o  cut  a  path  between  his  helpless  wish 

And  what  it  imaged.     A  ready  shapen  tool  1 

A  spy,  an  envoy  whom  he  might  despatch 

In  unsuspected  secrecy,  to  find 

The  Gypsies'  refuge  so  that  none  beside 

Jlight  learn  it.     And  this  juggler  could  bo  bribed, 

Would  have  no  fear  of  Moors— for  who  would  kill 

Dancers  and  monkeys?— conld  pretend  a  journey 

Back  to  his  home,  leaving  his  boy  the  while 

To  please  the  Duke  with  song.     Without  such  chanco— 

An  envoy  cheap  and  secret  as  a  mole 

Who  could  go  scatheless,  come  back  for  his  pay 

And  vanish  straight,  tied  by  no  neighborhood— 

Without  such  chance  as  tliis  poor  juggler  brought, 

Finding  Fedalma  was  betraying  her. 

Short  interval  betwixt  the  thought  and  deed. 

Roldan  was  called  to  private  audience 

With  Annibal  and  Pablo.    All  the  world 

(By  which  I  mean  the  score  or  two  who  heard) 

Shrugged  high  their  shoulders,  and  supposed  the  Duke 

Would  fain  beguile  the  evening  and  replace 

His  lacking  happiness,  as  was  the  right 

Of  nobles,  who  could  pay  for  any  cure. 

And  wore  nought  broken,  save  a  broken  limb. 

In  truth,  nt  first,  the  Duke  bade  Pablo  sing. 

But,  while  he  sang,  called  Roldan  wide  apart. 

And  told  him  of  a  mission  secret,  brief— 

A  quest  which  well  performed  might  earn  much  gold, 

But,  if  betrayed,  another  sort  of  pay. 

Roldan  was  ready;  "wished  above  all  for  gold 

And  never  wished  to  sjieak ;  had  worked  enough 

At  wagging  his  old  tongue  and  chiming  jokes; 

Thought  it  was  other.s'  turn  to  jilay  the  fool. 

Give  him  but  pence  enough,  no  rabbit,  sirs, 

Would  eat  and  stare  and  be  more  dumb  than  he. 

Give  him  his  orders." 


TITE  BPAITISn  GYPST.  179 

They  were  given  straight; 
Gold  for  the  journey,  and  to  buy  a  mule 
Outside  the  gates  through  which  he  was  to  pass 
Afoot  and  carelessly.    The  boy  would  stay 
Within  the  castle,  at  the  Dnke's  command. 
And  must  have  nought  but  ignorance  to  betray 
For  threats  or  coaxing.    Once  the  quest  performed. 
The  news  delivered  with  some  pledge  of  truth 
Sjife  to  the  Duke,  the  juggler  should  go  forth, 
A  fortune  in  his  girdle,  take  his  boy 
And  settle  firm  as  any  planted  tree 
In  f;\ir  Valencia,  never  more  to  roam. 
"Good!  good!  most  worthy  of  a  great  hidalgo! 
And  Roldan  was  the  man  !    Cut  Annibal— 
A  monkey  like  no  other,  though  morose 
111  private  character,  yet  full  of  tricks — 
'Twero  hard  to  carry  him,  yet  harder  n\]\ 
To  leave  the  boy  and  him  in  company 
And  free  to  slip  away.     The  boy  was  wikl 
And  shy  as  mountain  kid;  once  hid  himself 
And  tried  to  run  away,  and  Anniljul, 
AVho  always  took  the  lad's  side  (he  was  small, 
And  they  were  nearer  of  a  size,  and,  sirs. 
Your  monkey  has  a  spite  against  us  men 
For  being  bigger) — Annibal  went  too. 
Would  hardly  know  himself,  were  he  to  lose 
Both  boy  and  monkey— and  'twas  property, 
The  trouble  he  had  put  in  Annibal. 
He  didn't  choose  another  man  should  beat 
His  boy  and  monkey.    If  they  ran  away 
Some  mau  would  snap  them  up,  and  square  himself 
And  say  they  were  his  goods — he'd  taught  them— no! 
He,  Roldan,  had  no  mind  another  man 
Should  fatten  by  his  monkey,  and  the  boy 
Should  not  be  kicked  by  any  pair  of  sticks 
Calling  himself  a  juggler."  .  .    . 

But  the  Duke, 
Tired  of  that  hammering,  signed  that  it  should  cease , 
Bade  Roldan  quit  all  fears— the  boy  and  ape 
Should  be  safe  lodged  in  Abderahnian's  tower. 
In  keeping  of  the  great  physician  there. 
The  Duke's  most  special  confidant  and  friend. 
One  skilled  in  taming  brutes,  and  always  kind. 
The  Duke  himself  this  eve  would  see  them  lodged. 
Roldan  must  go— spend  no  more  words— but  go. 


The  Astrologer's  Study. 

A  room  high  up  in  Abderahnian's  tower, 

A  window  open  to  the  still  warm  eve, 

And  the  bi  iglit  disk  of  royal  Jupiter. 

Lamps  burning  low  make  little  atmospheres 

Of  light  amid  the  dimness;  here  and  tliere 

Show  books  and  phials,  stones  and  instruments. 

In  carved  dark-oaken  chair,  unpillowed,  sleeps 

Right  in  the  rays  of  Jupiter  a  small  man, 

In  skull-cap  bordorcd  close  with  crisp  gray  curls. 


180  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY, 

And  loose  bliick  crown  ehowiiifr  a  neck  autl  brcnst 

Protected  by  ;i  dini-<jiecii  amulet; 

Pale-faced,  with  liiicst  nostril  wont  to  breathe 

Ethereal  pa-^sion  in  a  world  of  tlioiif;ht; 

Eyebrows  jet-black  and  lirni,  yi:t  delicate  ; 

Beard  scant  and  <,'ri/.zlcd  ;  mouth  f<liut  firm,  with  cnrvea 

So  subtly  turned  to  meaning's  exquisite. 

You  secni  to  read  them  as  you  ri^ad  a  word 

Full-vowel  led,  lonj^-dcscendcd,  prcLjuant — ricli 

With  legacies  from  lonu;,  laborious  lives. 

Close  by  him,  like  a  genius  of  sleep, 

Purrs  the  gray  cat,  bridling,  with  snowy  breast. 

A  loud  knock.     "Forward!"  in  clear  vocal  ring. 

Enter  the  Duke,  Pablo,  and  Annibal, 

Exit  the  cat,  retreating  toward  the  dark. 

Don  Silva. 
You  slept,  Sephardo.    I  am  come  too  soon. 

SicruAuno. 

Nay,  my  lord,  it  was  I  who  slept  too  long. 
I  go  to  court  among  the  stars  to-night. 
So  bathed  my  soul  beforehand  in  deep  sleep. 
But  who  are  these  f 

Don  Sii.va. 

Small  guests,  for  whom  I  ask 
Your  hospitalit}'.    Their  owner  comes 
Some  short  time  hence  to  claim  them.    I  am  pledged 
To  keep  them  safely ;  so  I  bring  them  you, 
Trusting  your  friendship  for  small  animals. 

Sl'.PnARDO. 

Yea,  am  not  I  too  a  small  animal? 

Don  Sii.va. 

I  shall  be  much  beholden  to  your  love 
If  yon  will  be  their  guardian.     I  can  trust 
No  other  man  so  well  as  you.     The  boy 
Will  please  you  with  his  singing,  touches  too 
The  viol  woudrously. 

SKniAKIK). 

They  are  vi'elcomc  both. 
Their  names  are ? 

Don  Sii.va. 

Pablo,  this — this  Annibal, 
And  yet,  I  hope,  no  warrior. 

Sl'.l'IIARDO. 

\Ve"ll  make  peace. 
Come,  Pablo,  let  us  loosen  our  friend's  chain. 
Deign  you,  my  lord,  to  sit.    Here  Pablo,  thou — 
Close  to  my  chair.    Now  Annibal  sliall  choose. 

[The  cautious  monkey,  in  a  Moorish  dies.'', 
A  tunic  white,  turban  and  scimitar, 


THE  SPANISH  GYP&T.  181 

Wears  these  stage  garments,  nay,  his  very  flesh 

With  eilent  protest;  keeps  a  neutral  air 

As  aiming  at  a  metaphysic  state 

'Twixt  "is"  and  "is  not;"  lets  his  chain  be  loosed 

By  sage  Sephardo's  hands,  sits  still  at  first, 

Tlieu  trembles  out  of  his  nciilrality, 

Looks  np  and  leaps  into  Sephardo's  lap, 

And  chatters  forth  his  agitated  soul, 

Turning  to  peep  at  Pablo  ou  the  floor.] 

Skpuaedo. 
See,  he  declares  we  are  at  amity  ! 

Don  Silva. 
No  brother  sage  had  read  your  nature  faster. 

SErnARDO. 

Why,  so  he  is  a  brother  sage.    Man  thinks 
Brutes  have  no  wisdom,  since  they  know  not  his: 
Can  we  divine  their  world?— the  hidden  life 
That  mirrors  us  as  hideous  shapeless  power, 
Cruel  supremacy  of  sharp-edged  death, 
Or  fate  that  leaves  a  bleeding  mother  robbed  ? 
Oh,  they  have  long  tradition  and  swift  speech. 
Can  tell  with  touches  and  sharp  darting  cries 
Whole  histories  of  timid  races  taught 
To  breathe  in  terror  by  red-handed  man. 

Don  Silva. 

Ah,  yon  denounce  my  sport  with  hawk  and  houucL 

I  would  not  have  the  angel  Gabriel 

As  hard  as  you  in  noting  down  my  sins. 

SKniAEDO. 

Nay,  they  are  virtues  for  you  warriors — 
Hawking  and  hunting!    You  are  merciful 
When  you  leave  killing  men  to  kill  the  brutes. 
But,  for  the  point  of  wisdom,  I  would  choose 
To  know  the  mind  that  stirs  between  the  wings 
Of  bees  and  building  wasps,  or  fills  the  woods 
With  myriad  murmurs  of  responsive  sense 
And  true-aimed  impulse,  rather  tlian  to  know 
The  thoughts  of  warriors. 

Don  Silva. 

Yet  they  are  warriors  too — 
Y(7ur  animals.    Your  judgment  limps,  Scphardo: 
Death  is  the  king  of  this  world  ;  'tis  his  park 
Where  he  breeds  life  to  feed  him.    Cries  of  pain 
Arc  music  for  his  banquet;  and  the  masque — 
The  last  grand  masque  for  his  diversion,  is 
The  Holy  Inquisition. 

Skpuaedo. 

Ay,  anon 
I  may  chime  in  with  you.    But  not  the  less 
Wy  judgment  has  firm  feet.     Though  death  were  king, 


183  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

And  cruelty  his  liRht-hand  minister, 

Pity  insurgent  in  some  huniau  breasts 

Makes  spiritual  empire,  reijjns  su])rcmc 

As  persecuted  faith  in  faithful  hearts. 

Your  sraall  pliysiciau,  weighing  ninety  pounds, 

A  petty  morsel  for  ii  healthy  shark, 

Will  worshi))  mercy  throned  wilhiH  his  soul 

Though  all  the  lujniuous  angels  of  the  stars 

Burst  into  ernel  chorus  on  his  ear, 

Singing,  "  We  know  no  mercy."    Ue  would  cry 

"I  know  it"  still,  and  soothe  the  frightened  bird 

And  feed  the  child  a-hungered,  walk  abreast 

Of  persecuted  men,  and  keep  most  hate 

For  rational  torturers.    There  I  stand  firm. 

But  you  are  bitter,  and  my  speech  rolls  on 

Out  of  your  note. 

Don  SiLVA. 

No,  no,  I  follow  yon. 
I  too  have  that  within  which  I  will  worship 
In  spite  of  .  .  .  Yes,  Sephardo,  I  am  bitter. 
I  need  your  counsel,  foresight,  all  your  aid. 
Lay  these  small  guests  to  bed,  then  we  will  talk. 

Skphabdo. 

See,  they  are  sleeping  now.    The  boy  has  made 
My  leg  his  pillow.    For  my  brother  sage. 
He'll  never  heed  us ;  he  knit  long  ago 
A  sound  ape-system,  wherein  men  are  brutes 
Emitting  doubtful  noises.    Pray,  my  lord. 
Unlade  what  burdens  you:  my  ear  and  hand 
Are  servants  of  a  heart  much  bound  to  you. 

Don  Silva. 

Yes,  yours  is  love  that  roots  in  gifts  bestowed 
By  you  on  others,  and  will  thrive  the  more 
The  more  it  gives.    I  have  a  double  want: 
First  a  confessor — not  a  Catholic; 
A  heart  without  a  livery— naked  manhood. 

SnriiARBO. 

My  lord,  I  will  be  frank ;  there's  uo  such  thing 

As  naked  mnnhood.    If  the  stars  look  down 

On  auy  mortal  of  our  shape,  whose  strength 

Is  to  judge  all  things  vvitlieut  preference, 

lie  is  a  monster,  not  a  faithful  mau. 

While  my  heart  beats,  it  shall  wear  livery — 

My  people's  livery,  whose  yellow  badge 

Marks  them  for  Christian  scorn.    I  will  not  say 

Man  is  first  man  to  me,  then  Jew  or  Gentile : 

That  suits  the  rich  marranos;  but  to  me 

My  father  is  first  father  and  then  man. 

So  much  for  frankness'  sake.    But  let  that  pass. 

'Tis  true  at  least,  I  am  no  Catholic 

But  Salomo  Sephardo,  a  born  Jew, 

Willing  to  serve  Don  Silva. 


THE   SPANISH  GYPSY.  183 


Don  Silva. 

Oft  yon  sing 
Another  strain,  and  melt  distinctions  down 
As  no  more  real  than  the  wall  of  dark 
Seen  by  small  fishes'  eyes,  that  pierce  a  span 
In  the  wide  ocean.    Now  yon  leiigue  yoniself 
To  hem  me,  hold  me  prisoner  in  bonds 
Made,  say  you— how  ?— by  God  or  Deminrge, 
By  spirit  or  flesh— I  care  not!    Love  was  made 
Stronger  than  bonds,  and  where  they  press  mnst  break  them. 
I  came  to  you  that  I  might  breathe  at  large, 
And  now  you  stifle  me  with  talk  of  birth. 
Of  race  and  livery.    Yet  you  knew  Fedalma. 
She  was  your  friend,  Sephardo.     And  you  know 
She  is  gone  from  me— know  the  hounds  are  loosed 
To  dog  me  if  I  seek  her. 

Sf.puardo. 

Yes,  I  know. 
Forgive  me  that  I  used  untimely  speech, 
Pressing  a  bruise.     I  loved  her  well,  my  lord: 
A  woman  mixed  of  such  fine  elements 
That  v.'ere  all  virtue  and  religion  dead 
She'd  make  them  newly,  being  what  she  was. 

Don  Silva. 

H'ii.s  f  say  not  ivas,  Sepliardo  1    She  still  lives- 
Is,  and  is  mine;  and  I  will  not  renounce 
What  heaven,  nay,  wh:it  slie  gave  me.     I  will  sin. 
If  sin  I  must,  to  win  my  life  again. 
Tlie  fault  lie  with  those  powers  who  have  embroiled 
The  world  in  hopeless  conflict,  where  all  truth 
Fights  manacled  witli  falsehood,  and  all  good 
Makes  but  one  palpitating  life  with  ill. 

(Don  Silva  imriaes.     Sepiiabdo  is  silent.) 
Sephardo,  speak!  am  I  not  justified? 
You  taught  my  mind  to  use  the  wing  that  soars 
Above  the  petty  fences  of  the  herd : 
Now,  when  I  need  your  doctrine,  you  are  dumb. 

Sepiiakdo. 

Patience!    Hidalgos  want  interpreters 
Of  untold  dreams  and  riddles;  they  insist 
On  dateless  horoscopes,  on  formulas 
To  raise  a  possible  spirit,  nowhere  named. 
Science  must  be  their  wishing-cap ;  the  stars 
Speak  plainer  for  high  largesse.    No,  my  lord! 
I  cannot  counsel  you  to  unknown  deeds. 
This  much  I  can  divine :  you  wish  to  find 
Her  whom  you  love— to  make  a  secret  search. 

Don  Silva. 

That  is  Ijegun  already:  a  messenger 
Uidcnown  to  all  has  been  despatclied  this  night. 
But  forecast  mnst  be  used,  a  plan  devised, 
Ready  for  service  when  my  scout  returns,^ 


184  TUE   SPANISH   GYl'SY. 

Hi'inj^iiif^  the  invisible  thie;\cl  to  j^iiidc  my  etcps 
To\v:inl  that  lost  self  my  life  is  acliiiij^  with. 
Scphartlo,  I  will  go:  and  1  must  £o 
Unseen  by  all  save  you  ;  though,  at  our  need, 
Wc  may  tiust  Alvar. 

Sepiiakdo. 

A  giave  tas-k,  my  lord. 
Have  you  a  shapen  purpose,  or  mere  will 
That  sees  the  end  aloue  aud  uot  the  means? 
Resolve  will  melt  no  rocks. 

Don  Sii.va. 

But  it  can  scale  them. 
This  fortress  has  two  private  issues;  one. 
Which  served  the  Gypsies'  flight,  to  me  is  closed: 
Our  bands  must  watch  the  outlet,  now  betrayed 
To  cunning  enemies.    Itemaius  one  other. 
Known  to  no  man  save  me :  a  secret  left 
As  heirloom  in  our  house:  a  secret  safe 
Even  from  him — from  Father  Isidor. 
'Tis  he  who  forces  me  to  nse  it— he : 
All's  virtue  that  cheats  bloodhounds.    Hear,  Sepharda 
Given,  my  scout  returns  and  brings  me  news 
I  can  straight  act  on,  I  shrill  want  your  aid. 
The  issue  lies  below  this  tower,  your  fastness, 
Where,  by  my  charter,  yon  rule  absolute. 
I  shall  feign  illness  ;  you  with  mystic  air 
Must  speak  of  treatment  asking  vigilance 
(Nay,  I  avi  ill— my  life  has  half  ebbed  out). 
I  shall  be  whimsical,  devolve  command 
On  Don  Diego,  speak  of  poisoning. 
Insist  on  being  lodged  within  this  tower, 
And  rid  myself  of  tendance  save  from  you 
And  perhaps  from  Alvar.    So  I  shall  escape 
Unseen  by  spies,  shall  win  the  days  I  need 
To  ransom  her  and  have  her  safe  enshrined. 
No  matter,  were  my  flight  disclosed  at  last: 
I  shall  come  back  as  from  a  duel  fought 
Which  no  man  can  undo.    Now  you  know  all. 
Say,  can  I  count  on  you  ? 

Sun  I A  EDO. 

For  faithfulness 
In  aught  that  I  may  promise,  yes,  my  lord. 
But— for  a  pledge  of  faithfulness — this  warning.  ■ 
I  will  betray  nought  for  )'our  iiersonal  harm: 
I  love  you.     But  note  this — I  am  a  Jew ; 
And  while  the  Christian  persecutes  my  race, 
I'll  turn  at  need  even  the  Christian's  trust 
Into  a  weapon  and  a  shield  for  Jews. 
Shall  Cruelty  crowned— wielding  the  savage  force 
Of  multitudes,  and  calling  savageness  God 
Wlio  gives  it  victory— upbraid  deceit 
And  ask  for  failhrulness?    T  love  you  well. 
You  are  my  friend.     LUit  yet  you  are  a  Christian, 
Whose  birth  has  bound  you  to  the  Catholic  kings. 


THB  SPANISH  GYPSY.  185 

There  may  come  moments  when  to  share  my  joy 
Would  ninke  you  traitor,  wheu  to  share  your  grief 
Would  make  me  other  thau  a  Jew  .  .  . 

Don  Suva. 

What  need 
To  urge  that  now,  Sepliardof    I  am  one 
Of  mauy  Spanish  nobles  who  detest 
The  roaring  bigotry  of  the  herd,  would  fain 
Dash  from  the  lips  of  king  and  queen  the  cup 
Filled  with  besotting  venom,  half  infused 
By  avarice  and  half  by  priests.    And  now — 
Now  when  the  cruelty  you  flout  me  with 
Pierces  me  too  in  the  apple  of  my  eye, 
Now  when  my  kinship  scorches  me  like  hate 
Flashed  from  a  mother's  eye,  you  choose  this  time 
To  talk  of  birth  as  of  inherited  rage 
Deep-down,  volcanic,  fatal,  bursting  forth 
From  under  hard-taught  reason  ?    Wondrous  frieud  I 
My  uncle  Isidor's  echo,  mocking  me. 
From  the  opposing  quarter  of  the  heavens, 
With  iteration  of  the  thing  I  know, 
That  I'm  a  Christian  knight  and  Spanish  duke! 
The  consequence  ?    Why,  that  I  know.    It  lies 
In  my  own  hands  and  not  on  raven  tongues. 
The  knight  and  noble  shall  not  wear  the  chain 
Of  false-linked  thoughts  in  brains  of  other  men. 
What  question  was  there  'twist  us  two,  of  aught 
That  makes  division?    When  I  come  to  you 
I  come  for  other  doctrine  thau  the  Prior's. 

SEPnAItDO. 

My  lord,  you  are  o'erwrought  by  pain.    My  words, 

That  carried  innocent  meaning,  do  but  float 

Like  little  emptied  cups  upon  the  flood 

Your  mind  brings  with  it.    I  but  an.swered  you 

With  regular  proviso,  such  as  stands 

In  testaments  and  charters,  to  forcfond 

A  possible  case  which  none  deem  likelihood; 

Just  turned  my  sleeve,  and  pointed  to  the  braud 

Of  brotherhood  that  limits  every  pledge. 

Superfluous  nicety — the  student's  trick. 

Who  will  not  drink  until  he  cau  define 

What  water  is  and  is  uot.    But  enough. 

My  will  to  serve  you  uow  knows  no  division 

Save  the  alternate  beat  of  love  and  fear. 

There's  danger  in  this  quest— name,  honor,  life — 

My  lord,  the  stalce  is  great,  and  are  yon  sure  .  .  . 

Don  SiLVA. 

No,  I  am  sure  of  nought  but  this,  Sephardo, 
That  I  will  go.    Prudence  is  but  conceit 
Hoodwinked  by  ignorance.    There's  uouglit  exists 
That  is  not  dangerous  and  holds  not  death 
For  souls  or  bodies.    Prudence  turns  its  helm 
To  flee  the  storm  and  lauds  'mid  pestilence. 
Wisdom  would  cud  by  throwing  dice  with  folly 

23  I 


186  THE  SPANISH  OYPSY. 

But  for  dire  passion  which  alone  makes  choice. 
And  I  have  chosen  as  tlie  lion  robbed 
Cliooses  to  turn  npon  the  ravisher. 
If  love  were  slack,  the  I'rior's  imperions  will 
Would  move  it  to  ontmatch  him.    But,  Sepliardo, 
Were  all  else  mute,  all  passive  as  sea-calms, 
My  soul  is  one  great  hunger — I  must  see  her. 
Now  you  are  smiling.    Oh,  you  merciful  men 
Pick  u])  coarse  griefs  and  fling  them  in  the  face 
Of  us  whom  life  with  long  descent  has  trained 
To  subtler  pains,  mocking  your  ready  balms. 
You  smile  at. my  soul's  hunger. 

S  F.pn, vnno. 

Science  Bmilea 
And  sways  our  lips  in  spite  of  us,  my  lord. 
When  thought  weds  fact — when  maiden  j)rophecy 
Waiting,  believing,  sees  the  bridal  torch. 
I  use  not  vulgar  measures  for  your  giief. 
My  pity  keeps  no  cruel  feasts ;  but  thought 
Has  joys  apart,  even  in  blackest  woe. 
And  Bcisiiug  some  flue  thread  of  verity 
Knows  momentary  godhead. 

Don  Silva. 

And  your  thought? 

Sepuakdo. 

Seized  on  the  close  agreement  of  your  words 
With  what  is  written  in  your  horoscope. 

Don  Silva. 
Reach  it  me  now. 

SeI'HAUUO. 

By  your  leave,  Annibal. 

(ITe  places  ANNinAi,  on  Paislo's  laj)  and  rises.  The  hoy  moves  without  leak- 
ing, and  his  head  falls  on  the  opposite  side.  SEPnAuno  fetches  a  cushion 
and  lays  Paulo's  head  gcnthj  down  upon  it,  then  goes  to  reach  the  parch- 
ment from  a  cabinet.  Annihal,  having  waked  up  in  alarm,  shuts  his  eyes 
quicklg  again  and  pretends  to  sleep. ) 

Don  Silva. 

I  wish,  by  new  appliance  of  your  skill, 
Reading  afresh  the  records  of  the  sky, 
You  could  detect  more  special  augury. 
Such  chance  oft  happens,  for  .ill  characters 
Must  shrink  or  widen,  as  our  wine-skins  do, 
For  more  or  less  that  we  can  pour  in  them ; 
And  added  years  give  ever  a  new  l^ey 
To  fixed  prediction.    - 

Sepuabdo  (returning  with  the  parchment  and  reseating  himself.) 

True  ;  our  growing  thought 
Makes  growing  revelation.    But  demand  not 
Specific  augury,  as  of  sure  success 
lu  medit.ated  projects,  or  of  ends 
To  be  foreknown  by  peeping  in  God's  scroll. 


THE   SPANISH  GYPSY.  187 

I  say— nay,  Ptolemy  said  it,  l)ut  wise  books 
For  half  the  tniths  they  hold  are  honored  tombs— 
Prediction  is  contingent,  of  effects 
Where  causes  and  concomitants  are  mixed 
To  seeming  wealth  of  possibilities 
Beyond  onr  reckoninfj.     Who  will  pretend 
To  tell  the  adventnres  of  each  single  flsh 
Within  the  Syrian  Sea?    Show  me  a  fish, 
I'll  weigh  him,  tell  his  kind,  what  he  devoured. 
What  would  have  devoured  hini—hut  for  one  Ulas 
'  Who  netted  him  instead ;  nay,  could  I  tell 
That  had  Ulas  missed  him,  he  would  not  have  died 
Of  poisonous  mud,  and  so  made  carrion, 
Swept  off  at  last  by  some  sea-scavenger  ? 

Don  Sn.VA. 

Ay,  now  you  talk  of  fishes,  you  get  hard. 
I  note  you  merciful  men:  you  can  endure 
Torture  of  fishes  and  hidalgos.    Follows? 

Sepuaupo. 

By  how  much,  then,  the  fortanes  of  a  man 

Are  made  of  elements  refined  and  mixed 

Beyond  a  tunny's,  what  our  science  tells 

Of  the  star's  influence  hath  contingency 

In  special  issues.    Thus,  the  loadstone  draws, 

Acts  like  a  will  to  make  the  iron  submiss ; 

But  garlic  rubbing  it,  that  chief  effect 

Lies  in  suspense ;  the  iron  keeps  at  large, 

And  garlic  is  controller  of  the  stone. 

And  so,  my  lord,  your  horoscope  declares 

Not  absolutely  of  your  sequent  lot, 

But,  by  our  lore's  authentic  rules,  sets  forth 

What  gifts,  what  dispositions,  likelihoods 

The  aspects  of  the  heavens  conspired  to  fuse 

With  your  incorporate  soul.    Aught  more  than  this 

Is  vulgar  doctrine.    For  the  ambient. 

Though  o  cause  regnant,  is  not  absolute, 

But  suffers  a  determining  restraint 

From  action  of  the  subject  qualities 

In  proxiuiate  motion. 

Don  Silva. 

Yet  you  smiled  just  now 
At  some  close  fitting  of  my  horoscope 
With  present  fact — with  this  resolve  of  mine 
To  quit  the  fortress? 

Sephaedo. 

Kaj',  not  so ;  I  smiled. 
Observing  how  the  temper  of  your  soul 
Sealed  long  tradition  of  the  influence  shed 
By  the  heavenly  spheres.    Here  is  your  horoscope: 
The  aspects  of  the  Moon  with  Mars  conjimct, 
Of  Venus  and  the  Sun  with  Saturn,  lord 
Of  the  ascendant,  make  symbolic  speech 
Whereto  your  words  gave  running  paraphrase. 


188  'i'llli  Sl'ANISU  GYPSY. 

Don  Silva  (impatieiithj). 
What  did  I  say  f 

SRniABDO. 

You  spoke  as  oft  you  did 
When  I  was  schooling  yon  at  Cordova, 
And  lessons  on  the  noun  and  vcib  were  drowned 
With  sudden  eireaui  of  general  debate 
On  things  and  actions.    Always  in  that  stream 
I  saw  the  play  of  babbling  currents,  saw 
A  nature  o'cr-endowcd  with  oppositcs  ^ 

Making  a  self  alternate,  where  each  hour 
Was  critic  of  the  last,  each  mood  too  strong 
For  tolerance  of  its  fellow  in  close  yoke. 
The  ardent  planets  stationed  as  supreme, 
I'otent  in  action,  suffer  light  malign 
From  luminaries  large  and  coldly  bright 
Inspiring  meditative  doubt,  which  straight 
Doubts  of  itself,  by  interposing  act 
Of  Jupiter  in  the  fourth  house  fortified 
With  power  ancestral.    So,  my  lord,  I  read 
The  changeless  in  the  changing  ;  so  1  read 
The  constant  action  of  celestial  powers 
Mixed  into  waywardness  of  mortal  men. 
Whereof  no  sage's  eye  can  trace  the  course 
And  see  the  close. 

Don  Sii.va. 

Fruitful  result,  O  sage ! 

Certain  uncertainty. 

Skpuabdo. 

Yea,  a  result 
Fruitful  as  seeded  earth,  where  certainty 
Wotild  be  as  barren  as  a  globe  of  gold. 
I  love  you,  and  would  serve  you  well,  my  lord. 
Your  rashness  vindicates  itself  too  much. 
Puts  harness  on  of  cobweb  theory 
While  rushing  like  a  cataract.    Be  warned. 
Kesolve  with  you  is  a  fire-breathing  steed, 
But  it  sees  visions,  and  may  feel  the  air 
Impassable  with  thoughts  that  come  too  late, 
Rising  from  out  the  grave  of  murdered  honor. 
Look  at  your  image  in  your  horoscope : 

{Laying  the  horoscope  before  Don  Silva.) 
You  are  so  mixed,  my  lord,  that  each  to-day 
May  seem  a  maniac  to  its  morrow. 

Don  Silva  {pushing  away  the  horoscope,  rising  and  turning  to  looic  out  at 

the  open  wi7idow). 

No! 
No  morrow  e'er  will  say  that  I  am  mad 
Not  to  renounce  her.    Risks  1  I  know  them  all. 
I've  dogged  each  lurking,  ambushed  consequence. 
I've  handled  every  chance  to  know  its  shape 
As  blind  men  handle  bolts.    Oh,  I'm  too  sane  ! 
I  sec  the  FrUn'ii  nets.    He  docs  my  deed; 
For  he  has  narrowed  all  my  life  to  this— 


TUE  SPANISn  GYPSY.  189 

That  I  must  find  her  by  f?ome  hidden  means. 

(7/c  turns  and  stands  close  in  front  o/Sepharbo.) 
One  word,  Sephardo — leave  that  horoscope, 
Which  is  but  iteration  of  myself, 
And  give  me  promise.    Shall  I  count  on  you 
To  act  upon  my  signal?    Kings  of  Spain 
Like  me  have  found  their  refuge  in  a  Jew, 
And  trusted  in  his  counsel.    You  will  help  rae? 

Sepuaruo. 

Yes,  my  lord,  I  will  help  yon.    Israel 
Is  to  the  nations  as  the  body's  heart : 
Thus  writes  our  poet  Jehuda.    I  will  act 
So  that  no  man  may  ever  say  through  mo 
"Your  Israel  is  nought,''  and  make  my  deeds 
The  mud  they  fling  upon  my  brethren. 
I  will  not  fail  you,  save— you  know  the  terms: 
I  am  a  Jew,  and  not  that  infamous  life 
That  takes  on  bastardy,  will  know  no  father, 
So  shrouds  itself  in  the  pale  abstract,  Man. 
You  should  be  sacrificed  to  Israel 
If  Israel  needed  it. 

Don  Silva. 

I  fear  not  that. 
I  am  no  friend  of  flues  and  banishment. 
Or  flames  that,  fed  on  heretics,  still  gape. 
And  must  have  heretics  made  to  feed  them  siill. 
I  take  your  terms,  and  for  the  rest,  your  love 
Will  not  forsake  me. 

Sepharpo. 

'Tis  hard  Roman  love, 
That  looks  away  and  stretches  forth  the  sword 
Bared  for  its  master's  breast  to  run  upon. 
But  you  will  have  it  so.    Love  shall  obey. 

(Don  Silva  turns  to  the  icindow  again,  ana  is  silent  for  a  few  moments,  hob- 

ing  at  the  sky.) 

Don  Silva. 

See  now,  Sephardo,  yoti  would  keep  no  faith 
To  smooth  the  path  of  cruelty.    Confess, 
The  deed  I  would  not  do,  save  for  the  strait 
Another  brings  me  to  (quit  my  command. 
Resign  it  for  brief  space,  I  mean  no  more) — 
Were  that  deed  branded,  then  the  brand  should  fix 
On  him  who  urged  me. 

Sephardo. 
Will  it,  though,  my  lord? 

Don  Silva. 
I  speak  not  of  the  fact  but  of  the  right. 

Sij'iiaroo. 

My  lord,  yon  said  but  now  you  were  resolved. 
Question  not  if  the  world  will  be  unjust 
Branding  your  deed.    If  conscience  has  two  courts 


190  TIIE  SPANISH  GYTST. 

With  difTcriiif;  verdicts,  where  shall  lie  the  appeal? 

Our  law  must  be  without  us  or  within. 

Tliu  Ilii^licst  spcakH  thiotii;h  all  our  people's  voice, 

Custom,  tradition,  and  old  sanctities; 

Or  he  reveals  himself  by  new  decrees 

Of  inward  certitude. 

Don  Sii-va. 

My  love  for  her 
Makes  highest  law,  must  be  the  voice  of  God. 

SKrii.\ni)o. 
I  thought,  but  now,  you  seemed  to  make  excnee, 
And  plead  as  in  some  couit  where  Spanish  knights 
Arc  tried  by  other  laws  than  those  of  love. 

Don  Sii-va. 
'Twas  momentary.    I  shall  dare  it  all. 
How  the  great  planet  glows,  and  looks  at  me. 
And  seems  to  pierce  me  with  his  effluence  ! 
Were  ho  a  living  God,  these  rays  that  stir 
In  me  the  pulse  of  wonder  were  in  him 
Fulness  of  knowledge.    Are  yon  certified, 
Sephardo,  that  the  astral  science  slirinks 
To  such  pale  ashes,  dead  symbolic  forms 
For  that  congenital  mixture  of  effects 
Which  life  declares  without  the  aid  of  lore  ? 
If  there  are  times  propitious  or  malign 
To  our  first  framing,  then  must  all  events 
Have  favoring  periods :  yon  cull  your  plants 
By  signal  of  the  heavens,  then  why  uot  trace 
As  others  would  by  astrologic  rule 
Times  of  good  augury  for  momentous  acts, — 

As  secret  journeys  ? 

Sepuardo. 

Oh,  my  lord,  the  stara 
Act  not  as  witchcraft  or  as  muttered  spells. 
I  said  before  they  are  not  absohi'e. 
And  tell  no  fortunes.     I  adhei-e  alone 
To  such  tradition  of  their  agencies 
As  reason  fortifies. 

Don  Sii.va. 

A  barren  science  I 
Some  argue  now  'tis  folly.    'Twere  as  well 
Be  of  their  mind.     If  those  bright  stars  had  will — 
Bnt  they  are  fatal  fires,  and  know  no  love. 
Of  old,  I  think,  the  world  was  happier 
AVith  many  gods,  who  held  a  struggling  life 
As  mortals  do,  and  helped  men  in  the  straits 
Of  forced  misdoing.     I  doubt  that  horoscope. 
(Don  Sii.VA  turns  from  the  icindow  and  rcfieatii  himsdf  opposite  Sephaedo  ) 
I  am  most  self-contained,  and  strong  to  bear. 
No  man  save  you  has  seen  my  trembling  lip 
Utter  her  name,  since  she  was  lost  to  me. 
I'll  face  the  progeny  of  all  my  deeds. 

Skpuardo. 
May  they  be  fair !     No  horoscope  makes  slaves. 


THE  SPAJSIISn  GYPSY.  191 

'Tis  but  a  mirror,  shows  one  image  forth, 
Aud  leaves  the  future  dark  with  endless  "ifs." 

Don  SiLVA. 
I  marvel,  my  Sephardo,  you  cau  pinch 
With  confldeut  selection  these  few  gi-aius. 
And  call  them  verity,  from  out  the  du^^t 
Of  crumbling  error.     Surely  such  thought  creeps, 
Wilh  insect  exploration  of  the  world. 
Were  I  a  Hebrew,  now,  I  would  be  bold. 
Why  should  you  fear,  not  being  Catholic? 

Si:riiARno. 
Lo  !  you  yourself,  my  lord,  mix  subtleties 
With  gross  belief;  by  momentary  lapse 
Conceive,  with  all  the  vulgar,  that  we  Jews 
Must  hold  ourselves  God's  outlaws,  and  defy 
AH  good  with  blasphemy,  because  we  hold 
Your  good  is  evil  ;   think  we  must  turn  pale 
To  ^ee  our  portraits  painted  in  your  hell. 
And  sill  the  more  for  knowing  we  are  lost. 

Don  Silva. 
Eead  not  my  words  with  malice.     I  hut  meant, 
My  temper  hates  an  over-cautious  march. 

SKrUABDO. 

The  Unnameable  made  not  the  search  for  truth 

To  suit  hidalgos'  temper.     I  abide 

By  that  wise  spirit  of  listening  reverence 

Which  marks  the  boldest  doctors  of  our  race. 

For  Truth,  to  us,  is  like  a  living  child 

Born  of  two  parents:   if  the  parents  jiart 

And  will  divide  the  child,  how  shall  it  live? 

Or,  I  will  rather  say:  Two  angels  guide 

The  path  of  man,  both  aged  and  yet  young, 

As  angels  are,  ripening  through  endless  years. 

On  one  he  leans:    some  call  her  Memory, 

And  some.  Tradition  ;   and  her  voice  is  sweet. 

With  deep,  mysterious  accords:    the  other. 

Floating  above,  holds  down  a  lamp  which  streams 

A  light  divine  and  searcliing  on  the  earth. 

Compelling  eyes  and  footsteps.     Memory  yields. 

Yet  clings  with  loving  check,  and  shines  anew 

Reflecting  all  the  rays  of  that  bright  lamp 

Our  angel  Reason  holds.     We  had  not  walked 

But  for  Tradition  ;  we  walk  evermore 

To  higher  patlis,  by  brightening  Reason's  lamp. 

Still  we  are  purblind,  tottering.      I  hold  less 

Thau  Ahen-Ezra,  of  that  aged  lore 

Brought  by  long  centuries  from  Chaldseau  plains; 

The  Jew-taught  Florentine  rejects  it  all. 

For  still  the  light  is  measured  by  the  eye. 

And  the  weak  organ  fails.     I  may  see  ill  ; 

But  over  all  belief  is  faithfulness, 

WHiich  fulfils  vision  with  obedience. 

So,  I  must  grasp  my  morsels:   truth  is  oft 

Scattered  in  fragments  round  a  stately  pile 


193  THE  SPANISH  GYTSY. 

Ruilt  half  of  crroi-;  and  the  eye's  defect 

M:iy  breed  too  much  denial.     But,  my  lord, 

1  weary  your  sick  soul.     Go  now  with  mc 

Into  the  turret.      VVc  will  watch  the  spheres, 

And  see  the  constclliitions  bend  and  i)hinKC 

Into  a  depth  of  being  where  our  eyes 

Hold  them  no  more.    We'll  quit  ourselves  and  be 

The  red  Aldebaran  or  bright  Sirius, 

And  sail  as  in  a  solemn  voyage,  bound 

On  some  great  quest  we  know  not. 

Don  Sii.va. 

Let  us  go. 

She  may  be  watching,  too,  and  thought  of  her 

Sways  mc,  as  if  she  knew,  to  every  act 

Of  pure  allegiance. 

Sepuaudo. 

That  is  love's  perfection— 
Tuning  the  soul  to  all  her  harmonies 
So  that  no  chord  can  jar.     Now  wo  will  mount. 


A  large  hall  in  the  Castle,  of  Moorish  architecture.  On  the  side  where  the  windows 
are,  an  ovter  gallerj/.  Pages  and  other  young  gentlemen  attached  to  Don  Sii.- 
va's  hotiseltold,  gathered  chiefly  at  one  end  of  the  hall.  Some  are  tnoving 
about;  others  are  lounging  on  the  carved  he.nclics;  others,  half  stretched  on  pieces 
of  matting  and  carjx't,  are  gambling.  AniMi,  a  strijding  of  fifteen.,  sings  by 
snatches  in  a  boyish  treble,  as  he  loalks  up  and  down,  and  tosses  back  the  mils 
which  another  youth  flings  towards  him.  hi  the  middle  Don  Amadou,  a 
gaunt,  grag-haired  soldier,  in  a  handsome  xmiforin,  sits  in  a  marble  red-cush- 
ioned chair,  with  a  large  book  spread  out  on  his  knees,  from  lohich  he  is  read- 
ing aloud,  while  his  voice  is  half  droioned  by  the  talk  that  is  going  on  around 
him,  first  one  voice  and  then  another  surging  above  the  hum. 

Arias  (singing). 

There  was  a  holy  hermit 

Who  counted  all  tilings  loss 
For  Christ  hi.i  iVa.stej-'s  glory: 

He  made  an  ivory  cross. 
And  as  he  knelt  before  it 

And  ivc2)t  his  murdered  Lord, 
The  ivory  turned  to  iron. 

The  cross  became  a  sword. 

Jose  (from  the  floor). 
I  say,  twenty  cruzados!   thy  Galiciau  wit  can  never  count. 

UuKNANDO  {also  from  the  floor). 
And  thy  Sevilliau  wit  always  counts  double. 

Akias  (singing). 
The  tears  that  fell  upon  it. 

They  turned  to  red,  red  rust. 
The  tears  that  fell  from  off  it 

Made  xcriling  in  the  dust. 
The  holy  hermit,  gazing, 

Saio  ivords  upon  the  ground ; 
"  The  sword  be  red  forever 

With  the  blood  of  false  Mahoimd." 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  193 

Don  AMAnon  {looking  up  fnmi  his  book,  and  raising  his  voice). 
What,  gentlemcu  1     Our  Glorious  Lady  defeucl  us! 

Eni'.iquez  (froia  the  benches). 
Serves  the  iulidels  right!     They  have  sold  Christians  euoiigh  to  people  half 
the  towns  in  Paradise.     If  the  Queen,  now,  had  divided  the  pretty  damsels  of 
Malaga  among  the  Castilians  who  have  beeu  helping  in  the  holy  war,  and  not 
sent  half  of  them  to  Naples  . .  . 

Akias  (singing  again). 
At  the  battle  of  Clavijo 
In  the  days  of  King  Bamiro, 
Help  lis,  A  llah  !  cried  the  Moslem, 
Cried  the  Spaniard,  Heaven^s  chosen, 

God  and  Santiago! 
Fabian. 
Oh,  the  very  tail  of  onr  chance  has  vanislicd.    The  royal  army  is  breaking  np 
— going  home  far  the  winter.     The  Grand  Master  sticks  to  his  own  border. 

Akias  {singing). 
Straight  out-JlusJung  like  the  rainboio. 
See  him  come,  celestial  liar  on. 
Mounted  knight,  with  red-crossed  banner, 
J'lunging  earthward  to  the  battle. 

Glorious  Santiago  ! 

IlniA'ADO. 
Yes,  yes,  through  the  pass  of  By-and-by,  you  go  to  the  valley  of  Never.    We 
might  have  doue  a  great  feat,  if  the  Marquis  of  Cadiz  . .  . 

Akias  {sings). 
As  the  flame  before  the  swift  wind. 
See,  he  fires  us,  toe  bum  with  him  ! 
Flash  our  swords,  dash  Pagans  backward — 
Victory  he!  pale  fear  is  Allah! 

God  with  Santiago! 

Don  Amadoe  {raising  his  voice  to  a  cry). 
Sangre  de  Dios,  gentlemen  ! 

{He  simts  the  book,  and  lets  it  fall  with  a  bang  on  the  floor.    Tlicre  is  instant 

silence.) 

To  what  good  end  is  it  that  I,  who  studied  at  Salamanca,  and  can  write 
verses  agreeable  to  the  Glorious  Lady  with  the  point  of  a  sword  which  hath 
done  harder  service,  am  reading  aloud  in  a  clerkly  manner  from  a  book  which 
hath  beeu  culled  from  the  flowers  of  all  books,  to  instruct  you  iu  the  knowledge 
befitting  those  who  would  be  knights  and  worthy  hidalgos  ?  I  had  as  lief  be 
reading  iu  a  belfry.  And  gambling  too !  As  if  it  were  a  time  wheu  we  needed 
not  the  help  of  God  and  the  saints  !  Surely  for  the  space  of  one  hour  ye  might 
subdue  your  tongues  to  your  ears,  that  so  your  tongues  might  learn  somewhat  of 
civility  and  modesty.  Wherefore  am  I  master  of  the  Duke's  retinue,  if  my  voice 
is  to  run  along  like  a  gutter  in  a  storm  ? 

lIuRTADO  {lifting  up  the  book,  and  respectfully  presenting  it  to  Don  Amadoe). 

Pardon,  Don  Amador !  The  air  is  .so  commovcd  by  your  voice,  that  it  stirs  our 
tongues  iu  siiite  of  us. 

Don  Amadok  {reopening  the  book). 

Confess,  now,  it  is  a  goose-headed  trick,  that  when  rational  sounds  are  made 
for  your  edification,  you  find  nought  in  it  but  an  occasion  for  purposeless  gabble. 

28*  I* 


194  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

I  will  report  it  to  tlie  Duke,  niul  tlic  reading-time  sliall  be  cloublcd,  and  my  ofilro 
of  reader  shall  be  handed  over  to  Fray  Domin<?o. 

(While  Don  Amadou  Inta  been  spcakiiuj,  Don  Sh.va,  irith  Don  Alvar,  Imn  ai>- 
peared  ivalkinj  in  the  outer  gallery  on  which  the  loindows  are  opened.) 

Ai.L  (I'/j  concert). 
No,  no,  na 

Don  Amadou. 

Arc  ye  ready,  then,  to  listen,  if  I  finish  the  wholesome  extract  from  the  Seven 
Parts,  wherein  tlie  wise  Kin>,'  Alfonso  hath  set  down  the  rcasou  why  knights 
should  be  of  gentle  birth  ?    Will  ye  now  be  silent? 

An-. 
Yes,  silent. 

Don  Amador. 

But  when  I  panse,  and  look  up,  I  give  any  leave  to  speak,  if  he  hath  anght  per- 
tinent to  say. 

(Reads.) 

"  And  this  nobility  comcth  in  three  ways :  first,  by  lineage,  secondly,  by  science, 
and  thirdli/,  by  valor  and  worthy  behavior.  Now,  although  they  who  gain  no- 
bility throngh  science  or  good  deeds  arc  riglitfully  called  noble  and  gentle  ;  never- 
theless, they  are  with  the  highest  fitness  so  called  wtio  are  noWe  by  ancient  line- 
age, and  lead  a  worthy  life  as  by  inheritance  from  afar  ;  and  hence  are  more  bound 
and  constrained  to  act  well,  and  guard  themselves  from  error  and  \vrong-d(riiig; 
for  in  their  case  it  is  more  true  that  by  evil-doing  they  bring  injury  and  shame  not 
only  on  themselves,  but  also  on  those  from  whom  they  are  derived." 

Don  Ajiadok  (placing  his  forefinger  for  a  mark  on  the  page,  and  looking  up, 
while  he  ki^eps  his  voice  raised,  as  wishing  Don  Silva  to  overhear  him,  in  the 
judiciotui  discharge  of  his  function). 

Hear  ye  that,  yonng  gentlemen  f  See  yc  not  that  if  ye  have  but  bad  mannors 
even,  they  disgrace  you  more  than  gross  misdoings  disgrace  the  low-born? 
Tliiuk  yon,  Arias,  it  becomes  the  son  of  your  house  irreverently  to  sing  and  lling 
nuts,  to  tlio  interruption  of  your  elders? 

Akias  (sitting  on  the  floor,  and  leaning  backward  on  hM  elbows). 

Nay,  Don  Amador;  King  Alfonso,  they  say,  was  a  heretic,  and  I  think  that  is 
not  true  writing.    For  noble  birth  gives  us  more  leave  to  do  ill  if  wo  like. 

Don  Amadok  (lifting  his  brows). 

What  bold  and  blasphemous  talk  is  this? 

AUIAS. 

Why,  nobles  are  only  punished  now  and  then,  in  a  grand  way,  and  have  their 
heads  cut  off,  like  the  Grand  Constable.    I  shouldn't  mind  that. 

JOSK. 

Nonsense,  Arias  !  nobles  have  their  heads  cut  off  because  their  crimes  arc  noble. 
If  they  did  what  was  unkuightly,  they  would  come  to  shame.  Is  not  that  true, 
Don  Amador? 

Don  Amadou. 

Arias  is  a  contumacious  puppy,  who  will  bring  dishonor  on  his  parentage. 
Pray,  sirrah,  whom  did  you  ever  hear  sjiealc  as  you  have  spoken  ? 

AniAS. 
Nay,  I  speak  out  of  mine  own  head.    I  shall  go  and  ask  the  Duke. 

nURTADO. 

Now,  now'  YOU  are  too  bold.  Arin-:. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  195 


AniAS. 
Oh,  he  is  never  an^ry  with  me,—{droppin<}  his  voice)  because  the  Lady  Fedalnia 
liked  me.    She  .said  I  was  a  good  boy,  and  pretty,  and  that  is  what  you  are  not, 
lliirtado. 

HUKTADO. 

Girl-face !    See,  now,  if  you  dare  ask  the  Duke. 

(Don  Silva  is  jii>it  cntcritvj  the  hall  from  the  gallcrij,  loith  Don  Ai.vak  behind 

him,  intending  to  jots.s  otit  at  the  other  end.    All  rise  tvith  homage.    Don  Silva 

hows  coldly  and  abstractedly.    Auias  advam:cs  from  the  group  and  goes  up  to 

Don  Silva.) 

Aeiab. 

My  lord,  is  it  true  that  a  uoble  is  more  dishonored  tlian  other  men  if  he  does 
nnght  dishonorable  ? 

Don  Silva  {first  blushing  deeply,  and  grasping  his  sword,  then  raising  his  hand  and 
giving  Aeias  a  blow  on  the  ear). 

Varlet  I 

Akias. 

My  lord,  I  am  a  gentleman. 
(Don  Sii.va  pushes  him  away,  and  passes  on  hurriedly.) 
Don  Alvau  {following  and  turning  to  speak). 
Go,  go  !  you  should  not  speak  to  the  Duke  when  you  are  not  called  upon.    lie 
is  ill  and  much  distempered. 

(Arias  retires,  flushed,  with  tears  in  his  eyes.    His  companions  look  too  much 
surprised  to  triumph.    Don  Amador  remains  silent  and  confused.) 


The  Placa  Santiago  dnring  busy  inarket-time.  Mules  and  asses  laden  with  fruits  and 
vegetables.  Stalls  and  booths  filled  with  v)a7xs  of  all  sorts.  A  croxcd  of  buyers  and 
sellers.  A  stalioart  icoman,  with  keen  eyes,  leaning  over  the  panniers  of  a  inule 
laden  with  apjdcs,  watches  Lorenzo,  loho  is  lounging  through  the  market.  As  he 
approaches  her,  he  is  tnet  by  Blasoo. 

Lorenzo. 
Well  met,  friend. 

Blasoo. 

Ay,  for  we  are  soon  to  part, 
And  I  would  see  you  at  the  hostelry, 
To  take  my  reckoning.     I  go  forth  to-day. 

LOKKNZO. 

'Tis  grievous  parting  with  good  company. 
I  would  I  h.id  tlie  gold  to  pay  such  guests 
For  all  my  pleasure  in  their  talk. 

Blabco. 

Why,  yes ; 
A  solid-headed  man  of  Aragon 
lias  matter  in  him  that  you  Southerners  lack. 
You  like  my  company — 'tis  natural. 
But,  look  you,  I  have  done  my  business  well, 
Ilave  sold  and  ta'en  commissions.    I  come  straight 
From — you  know  who — I  like  not  naming  him.  <• 

I'm  a  thick  man  :  you  reach  not  my  backbone 
With  any  tooth-pick  ;  but  I  tell  you  this: 


196  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

lie  reached  it  with  liis  eye,  right  to  the  marrow. 
1 1  gave  me  heart  tliat  I  had  (jliitc  to  Bell, 
For,  saint  or  no  saint,  ii  good  .silvcrsniilh 
Is  wauled  for  God's  service ;  and  my  plate— 
lie  judged  it  well— bought  nobly. 

LOEKNZO. 

A  great  man, 

And  holy ! 

Blasoo. 

Yes,  I'm  glad  I  leave  to-day. 
For  there  arc  stories  give  a  sort  of  smell- 
One's  nose  has  fancies.    A  good  trader,  sir, 
Likes  not  this  plague  of  lapsing  iu  the  air, 
Most  caught  by  men  with  funds.     And  they  do  say 
There's  a  great  terror  here  iu  Moors  and  Jews, 
I  would  say.  Christians  of  uuhappy  blood. 
'Tis  monstrous,  sure,  that  mcu  of  substance  lapse. 
And  risk  their  property.    I  know  I'm  sound. 
No  heresy  was  ever  bait  to  me.    VVhate'er 
Is  the  right  failh,  that  I  believe— nought  else. 

LOEKNZO. 

Ay,  truly,  for  the  flavor  of  true  failh 

Once  known  must  sure  be  sweetest  to  the  taste. 

But  an  uneasy  mood  is  now  abroad 

Within  the  town;  partly,  for  that  the  Duke 

Being  sorely  sick,  has  yielded  the  command 

To  Don  Diego,  a  most  valiant  man. 

More  Catholic  than  the  Holy  Father's  self. 

Half  chiding  God  that  he  will  tolerate 

A  Jew  or  Arab;  though  'tis  plaiu  they're  made 

For  profit  of  good  Chrisliaus.    And  weak  heads — 

Panic  will  knit  all  disconnected  facts — 

Draw  hence  belief  in  evil  auguries. 

Rumors  of  accusation  and  arrest. 

All  air-begotten.    Sir,  you  need  not  go. 

But  if  it  must  be  so,  I'll  follow  you 

In  fifteen  minutes— finish  marketing. 

Then  be  at  home  to  speed  you  on  your  way. 

Blasoo. 
Do  so.    I'll  back  to  Saragossa  straight. 
The  court  and  nobles  are  retiring  now 
And  wending  northward.    There'll  be  fresh  demand 
For  bells  and  images  against  the  Spring, 
When  doubtless  our  great  Catholic  sovereigns 
Will  move  to  conquest  of  these  eastern  parts. 
And  cleanse  Granada  from  the  infidel. 
Stay,  sir,  with  God,  until  we  meet  again  ! 

Lorenzo. 

Go,  sir,  -with  God,  until  I  follow  you ! 

{Exit  Bi-Asoo.    LoiiENZo  passes  on  towards  the  market-woman,  who,  as  he  ap- 
proaches, raises  herself  from  Mr  leaning  attitude.) 

LOKENZO. 

Good-day,  my  mistress.    How's  your  merchandise  ? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  197 

Fit  for  a  host  to  buy?    Your  apples  now, 

They  have  fair  cheeks  ;  how  are  they  at  the  core? 

Mauket-Woman. 
Good,  good,  sh" !    Tiiste  aud  try.    See,  here  is  one 
Weighs  a  man's  head.    The  best  are  bouud  with  tow: 
'J'hey're  wortli  the  pains,  to  keep  the  peel  from  splits. 
(She  takes  out  an  aj)ple  bound  with  tow,  and,  as  she  puts  it  into  Lokenzo's 
hand,  speaks  in  a  lower  tone. ) 
'Tis  called  the  Miracle.     Y()U  open  it, 
And  find  it  full  of  speech. 

Lorenzo. 

Ay,  give  it  me, 
I'll  take  it  to  the  Doctor  iu  the  tower. 
lie  feeds  on  fruit,  and  if  he  likes  the  sort 
I'll  buy  them  for  him.     Meanwhile,  drive  your  ass 
Hound  to  my  liostelry.    I'll  straight  be  there. 
You'll  not  refuse  some  barter  ? 

Maeket-Wo.man. 

No,  not  I. 
Feather  and  skins. 

LOUENZO. 

Good,  till  we  meet  again. 
(LoKKNZO,  after  smelling  at  the  apple,  puts  it  into  a  }7ouch-like  basket  which 
hangs  before  him,  and  walks  away.    The  woman  drives  off  the  mule.) 

A  Letter. 
"Zarca,  the  chieftain  of  the  Gypsies,  greets 
The  King  El  Zagal.    Let  the  force  be  sent 
With  utmost  swiftness  to  the  Pass  of  Luz. 
A  good  five  hundred  added  to  iny  bands 
Will  master  all  the  garrison:  the  town 
Is  half  with  us,  aud  will  not  lift  an  arm 
Save  on  our  side.    My  scouts  have  found  a  way 
Where  ouce  we  thought  the  fortress  most  secure: 
Spying  a  man  upon  the  height,  they  traced. 
By  keen  conjecture  piecing  broken  sight, 
His  downward  path,  aud  found  its  issue.     There 
A  file  of  us  can  mount,  surprise  the  fort 
And  give  the  signal  to  our  friends  within 
To  ope  the  gates  for  our  confederate  bands, 
Who  will  lie  eastward  ambushed  by  the  rocks. 
Wailing  the  night.    Enough ;  give  me  command, 
Bedmar  is  yours.    Chief  Zarca  will  redeem 
His  pledge  of  highest  service  to  the  Moor: 
Let  the  Moor  too  be  faithful  aud  repay 
The  Gypsy  with  the  furtherance  he  needs 
To  lead  his  people  over  Bahr  el  Scham 
And  plant  them  on  the  shore  of  Africa. 
So  may  the  King  El  Zagal  live  as  one 
Who,  trusting  Allah  will  be  true  to  him, 
Maketh  himself  as  Allah  true  to  friends." 


198  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


DOOK    III. 


Quit  now  the  town,  and  witli  a  journeying  dream 

Swift  as  tiic  \vin:;s  of  sound  yet  seeming  slow 

Througli  multitudinous  {)ulsing  of  stored  sense 

And  spiriuial  space,  sec  walls  and  towers 

Lie  in  the  silent  whiteness  of  a  trance. 

Giving  no  sign  of  that  warm  life  within 

That  moves  and  miu'inuvs  through  their  hidden  heart. 

Pass  o'er  the  mountain,  wind  in  sombre  shade, 

Then  wiud  into  tlie  light  and  see  the  town 

Shrunk  to  white  crust  uiion  the  darker  rock. 

Turn  east  and  sontli,  descend,  then  rise  anew 

'Mid  smaller  mouutaius  ebbing  towards  the  plain  : 

Scent  the  fresh  breath  of  the  height-loving  herbs 

That,  trodden  by  the  pretty  parted  hoofs 

Of  nimble  goats,  sigh  at  the  innocent  bruise, 

And  with  a  mingled  difference  exquisite 

Pour  a  sweet  burden  on  the  buoyant  air. 

Pause  now  and  be  all  ear.    Far  from  the  south, 

Seeking  the  listening  silence  of  the  heights, 

Comes  a  slow-dying  sound — the  Moslems'  call 

To  prayer  in  afternoon.    Bright  in  the  sun 

Like  tall  white  sails  on  a  greeu  shadowy  sea 

Stand  Moorish  watch-towers :  'neath  that  eastern  sky 

Couches  unseen  the  strength  of  Moorish  Baza  ; 

Where  the  meridian  bends  lies  Guadix,  hold 

Of  brave  El  Zagal.     Tliis  is  Moorish  laud. 

Where  Allah  lives  unconquered  in  dark  bi'easts 

And  blesses  still  the  many-nourishing  earth 

With  dark-armed  industry.     See  from  the  steep 

The  scattered  olives  hurry  in  gray  throngs 

Down  towards  the  valley,  where  the  little  stream 

Parts  a  green  hollow  'twixt  the  gentler  slopes  : 

And  in  that  hollow,  dwellings:  not  white  homes 

Of  building  Moors,  but  little  swarthy  tents 

Such  as  of  old  perhaps  on  Asian  plains, 

Or  wending  westward  past  the  Caucasus, 

Our  fathers  raised  to  rest  in.     Close  they  swaim 

About  two  taller  tents,  and  viewed  afar 

Might  seem  a  dark-robed  crowd  in  penitence 

That  silent  kneel;  but  come  now  in  their  midst 

And  watch  a  busy,  bright-eyed,  sportive  life ! 

Tall  maidens  bend  to  feed  the  tethered  goat. 

The  ragged  kiille  fringing  at  the  knee 

Above  the  living  curves,  the  shoulder's  smoothness 

Parting  the  torrent  strong  of  ebon  hair. 

Women  with  babes,  the  wild  and  neutral  glance 

Swayed  now  to  sweet  desire  of  mothers'  eyes. 

Rock  their  strong  cradling  arms  and  chant  low  strains 

Taught  by  monottmoiis  and  soothing  winds 

That  fall  at  night-time  on  the  dozing  ear. 

The  crones  plait  reeds,  or  shred  the  vivid  herbs 

Into  the  caldi'on:  tiny  urchins  crawl 


THE  SPAJSriSH  GYPSY.  199 

Or  sit  and  gurgle  forth  their  infant  joy. 

Lads  lying  sphinx-lilie  with  npiifted  breast 

I'ropped  on  their  elbow.---,  their  bhuk  manes  tossed  back, 

Fling  up  the  coin  and  watch  its  fatal  fall, 

Dispute  and  scranihle,  run  and  wrestle  lierce. 

Then  fall  to  play  and  fellowship  again ; 

Or  iu  a  thieving  swarm  they  run  to  plague 

The  grandsires,  who  return  with  rabbits  sluug, 

And  with  the  mules  fruit-laden  from  the  fields. 

Some  striplings  clioose  the  smooth  stones  from  the  brook 

To  serve  the  slingers,  cut  the  twigs  for  snares. 

Or  trim  the  hazel-wands,  or  at  the  bark 

Of  some  exploring  dog  tliey  dart  away 

With  swift  precision  towards  a  moving  speck. 

These  are  the  Ijrood  of  Zarca's  Gypsy  tribe; 

Jlost  like  an  earth-born  race  bred  by  the  Suu 

On  some  rich  tropic  soil,  the  father's  light 

Flashing  in  coal-black  eyes,  the  mother's  blood 

With  bounteous  elements  feeding  their  young  limbs. 

The  stalwart  men  and  youths  are  at  the  wars 

Following  their  chief,  all  save  a  trusty  band 

Who  keep  strict  watch  along  the  nortbern  heigSits. 

But  see,  upon  a  pleasant  spot  removed 

From  the  camp's  hubbub,  where  the  thid^et  strong 

Of  huge-eared  cactus  makes  a  bordering  curve 

And  casts  a  shadow,  lies  a  sleeping  man 

With  Spanish  hat  screening  his  upturned  face. 

His  doublet  loose,  his  right  arm  baclcward  flung. 

His  loft  caressing  close  the  long-necked  lute 

That  seems  to  sleep  too,  leaning  tow"rds  its  lord. 

He  draws  deep  breath  secuie  but  not  unwatched. 

Aloving  a-tiptoe,  silent  as  the  elves. 

As  mischievous  too,  trip  three  bare-footed  girls 

Not  opened  yet  to  womanliood — dark  flowers 

In  slim  long  buds:  some  paces  farther  oft' 

Gtithers  a  little  white-leethed  shaggy  group, 

A  grinning  chorus  to  the  merry  play. 

The  tripping  girls  have  robbed  the  sleeping  man 

Of  all  his  ornaments.    Hita  is  declied 

With  an  embroidered  scarf  across  her  rags; 

Tralla,  with  thorns  for  pins,  sticks  two  rosettes 

Upon  her  tlireadbare  woollen  ;  Ilinda  now, 

Prettiest  and  boldest,  tuclcs  her  kirilc  up 

As  wallet  for  the  stolen  buttons— then 

Bends  with  her  knife  to  cut  from  off  the  hat 

The  aigrette  and  long  feather  ;  deftly  cuts. 

Yet  walies  the  sleeper,  who  with  sudden  start 

Shakes  ofl"  the  masking  hat  and  shows  the  face 

Of  Juan  ;   Hinda  svvifc  as  thought  leaps  back, 

Bat  carries  off  the  spoil  triumphantly, 

And  leads  the  chorus  of  a  happy  laugh. 

Running  with  all  the  naked-footed  imps, 

Till  with  safe  survey  all  can  face  about 

And  watch  for  signs  of  stimulating  chase. 

While  Ilinda  ties  long  grass  around  her  brow 

To  stick  thQ  feather  in  with  majesty. 


200  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

Juau  slill  sits  contemplative,  with  looks 
Alternate  at  the  spoilers  and  their  work. 

Juan. 

All,  you  miiruudiiig  kite— my  feather  goncl 
My  belt,  my  scarf,  my  buttons  and  rosettes! 
This  is  to  be  a  brother  of  your  tribe ! 
The  fiery-blooded  children  of  the  Sun- 
So  says  chief  Zarca— children  of  the  Sun  ! 
Ay,  ay,  the  black  and  stinging  flies  he  breeds 
To  ])lague  the  decent  body  of  mankind. 
"Orpheus,  professor  of  the  gai  saher. 
Made  all  the  brutes  polite  by  dint  of  song." 
Pregnant — but  as  a  guide  in  daily  life 
Delusive.     For  if  song  and  music  cure 
The  barbarous  trick  of  tliieving,  'tis  a  cure 
That  works  as  slowly  as  old  Doctor  Time 
In  curing  folly.     VVliy,  the  minxes  there 
Have  rhythm  in  their  toes,  and  music  rings 
As  readily  from  them  as  from  little  bells 
Swung  by  the  breeze.    Well,  I  will  try  the  physic. 

(lie  tuuches  his  lute.) 
Hem  !  taken  right!}',  any  single  thing, 
The  Rabbis  say,  implies  all  other  things, 
A  knotty  task,  though,  the  unravelling 
Meiim  and  Tmmi  from  a  saraband : 
It  needs  a  subtle  logic,  nay,  perhaps 
A  good  large  property,  to  see  the  thread. 

{He  touches  the  lute  again.) 
There's  more  of  odd  than  eveu  in  this  world. 
Else  pretty  sinners  would  not  be  let  ofl" 
Sooner  than  ugly ;  for  if  honeycombs 
Are  to  he  got  by  stealing,  they  should  go 
Where  life  is  bitterest  on  the  tongue.    And  yet— 
Because  this  minx  has  pretty  ways  I  wink 
At  all  her  tricks,  though  if  a  flat-faced  lass, 
With  eyes  askew,  were  half  as  bold  as  she, 
I  should  chastise  her  with  a  hazel  switch. 
I'm  a  plucked  peacock— even  my  voice  and  wit 
Without  a  tail !— why,  any  fool  detects 
The  absence  of  your  tail,  but  twenty  fools 
May  not  detect  the  presence  of  your  wit. 

(He  touches  his  lute  again.) 
Well,  I  must  coax  my  tail  back  cunningly. 
For  to  ruu  after  Ibese  brown  lizards — all ! 
I  think  the  lizards  lift  their  ears  at  this. 

(Ashe  thrums  his  lute  the  lads  and  girls  gradually  approach :  he  touches  it  more 
briskly,  and  IIinda,  advancing,  begins  to  move  arms  and  legs  with  an  initiatory 
dancing  movement,  smiling  coaxingbj  at  Jcan.  He  suddenly  stops,  lays  down 
hvj  lute  and  folds  his  arms.) 

JUAK. 

What,  you  expect  a  tunc  to  dance  to,  eh? 

HlNDA,  IIlTA,  TltAI.I.A,  AND   TUE   BEST 

(claj^ping  their  hands). 
Yes,  yes,  a  tune,  n  tune ! 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  201 


Juan. 

But  that  is  what  you  cannot  have,  my  sweet  brothers  and  sisters.  The  tunes 
are  all  dead— dead  as  the  tunes  of  the  lark  when  you  have  plucked  his  wings  off; 
dead  as  the  song  of  the  grasshopper  when  the  ass  has  swallowed  him.  I  can 
play  and  sing  no  more.     Hinda  has  killed  my  tunes. 

(.4^  cry  out  in  consternation.     IIinda  gives  a  wail  and  tries  to  examine  the  lute.) 

Joan  {waviivj  her  off). 

Understand,  Seilora  IIinda,  that  the  tunes  are  in  me;  they  are  not  in  the  Into 
till  I  put  them  there.  And  if  you  cross  my  humor,  I  shall  be  as  tuneless  as  a  bag 
of  wool.  If  the  tunes  are  to  be  brought  to  life  again,  I  must  have  my  feather 
back. 

(Hinda  kisses  his  hands  and  feet  coaxincjly.) 
No,  no  !  not  a  note  will  come  for  coaxing.    The  feather,  I  say,  the  feather ! 

(UiNDA  sorrowfulli/  takes  off  the  feather,  and  gives  it  to  Juan.) 
Ah,  now  let  us  see.     Perhaps  a  tune  will  come. 

(He plays  a  measure,  a7id  the  three  girls  begin  to  dance;  then  he  suddenly  stops.) 

Juan. 

No,  the  tune  will  not  come :  it  wants  the  aigrette  (pointing  to  it  on  Uinda's 
neck). 
(IIinda,  leith  rather  less  hesitation,  but  again  sorroufnlly,  takes  off  the  aigrette, 

and  gives  it  to  him. ) 

Juan. 
Ha  !    (ffe  plays  again,  but,  after  rather  a  longer  time,  again  sto2^s.)    No,  no ;  'tis 
the  buttons  are  wanting,  IIinda,  the  buttons.    This  tune  feeds  chiefly  on  buttons 
— a  greedy  tune.    It  wants  one,  two,  three,  four,  live,  six.    Good  I 

(After  Hinda  has  given  u]j  the  buttons,  and  Juan  has  laid  them  down  one  by  one, 
he  begins  to  x>lay  again,  going  on  longer  than  before,  so  that  the  dancers  become 
excited  by  the  movement.     Then  he  stops- ) 

Juan. 

Ah,  Hita,  it  is  the  belt,  and,  Tralla,  the  rosettes— both  are  wanting.    I  see  the 
tuue  will  not  go  on  without  them. 
(Hita  and  Tiialla  take  off  the  belt  and  rosettes,  and  lay  them  down  quickly,  being 
fired  by  the  dancing,  and  eager  for  the  micsic.    All  the  articles  lie  by  Juan's  side 
on  the  ground.) 

JtTAN. 

Good,  good,  my  docile  wild-cats!  Now  I  think  the  tunes  are  all  alive  again. 
Now  you  may  dance  and  sing  too.  Hiudn,  my  little  screamer,  lead  off  with  the 
song  I  taught  you,  and  let  us  see  if  the  tune  will  go  right  on  from  beginning  to 
end. 

(Ue  plays.     The  dance  begins  again,  IIinda  singing.    All  the  other  boys  and  girls 
join  in  the  chorus,  and  all  at  last  dance  wildly.) 

Song. 

All  things  journey :  sun  and  moon. 
Morning,  noon,  and  afternoon, 

Night  and  all  her  stars: 
'Twixt  the  east  and  western  bars 

Round  they  journey. 
Come  and  go  1 

We  go  with  them  ! 
For  to  roam  and  ever  roam, 
Is  the  Z'lnculi's  loved  home. 


203  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

Eufth  is  good,  the  Jiilhide  Ircals 
Bi)  the  ti.shaii  roots  and  nidkes 

J/u)iijri/  noatrilis  glad : 
Then  wc  run  till  tee  are  mad. 

Like  the  horses. 
And  ice  cry. 

None  shall  catch  us .' 
Swift  loinds  tcini;  ns — ice  are  free — 
Drink  the  air — ice  Z'lncali  ! 

Falls  the  snoio :  the  jnne-hranch  split. 
Call  the  fire  out,  see  it  fiit, 

Through  the  dry  leaves  rim. 
Spread  and  glow,  and  make  i;  sun 

In  the  dark  tent: 
O  warm  dark  ! 

Warm  as  conies  ! 
Strong  fire  loves  us,  we  are  warm  ! 
Who  the  Z'lncali  shall  harm  f 

Onward  journey  :  fires  are  spent; 
Sunward,  snmcar'd  !  lift  the  tent. 

Run  before  the  rain. 
Through  the  2)uss,  along  the  plain. 

Hurry,  hui-ry. 

Lift  us,  rcind  ! 

Like  the  horses. 
For  to  roam  and  ever  roam 
Is  the  Z'lncalVs  loved  home. 

(  When  tlie  da7iee  is  at  its  height,  Hind  a  breaks  auw/frovi  the.  rest,  and  dances  round 
Juan,  who  is  noio  standing.  As  he  turns  a  little  to  watch  her  movement,  swirw 
of  the  boys  ski2>  towards  tlie  feather,  aigrette,  etc.,  snatch  them  up,  and  run  away, 
swiftly  followed  by  IIita,  Tkali.a,  and  the  rest.  Hinpa,  as  she  turns  again, 
sees  them,  screams,  and  falls  in  her  ivhirling  ;  but  immediately  gets  up,  and 
rushes  after  tlcem.,  still  screaming  with  rage.) 

JCAN. 

Santiago!  these  imiis  get  bolder.  Ilaha !  Sefiora  Ilincla,  tliis  finishes  yonr  les- 
son in  ethics.  You  have  seen  the  advantage  of  giving  np  stolen  goods.  Now  yon 
sec  the  ugliness  of  thieving  when  practised  by  others.  That  fable  of  mine  abont 
the  tnnes  was  excellently  devised.  I  feel  like  an  ancient  sage  instructing  our  lisi)- 
ing  ancestors.  My  memory  will  descend  as  the  Orphens  of  Gypsies.  Bnt  I  must 
prepare  a  rod  for  those  rascals.  I'll  bastinado  them  with  prickly  pears.  It  seems 
to  me  these  needles  will  have  a  sound  moral  teaching  in  them. 

(While  Juan  takes  a  knife  from  his  belt,  and  surveys  a  hush  of  the  i>rickly  2'car, 

IIiNDA  returns.) 

Juan. 

Pray,  Sefiora,  why  do  you  fnrac  ?  Did  you  want  to  steal  my  ornaments  again 
yourself? 

HiNDA  (sobbing). 

No ;  I  thought  you  would  give  thcni  me  back  again. 

Juan. 

What,  did  you  want  the  tunes  to  die  again?  Do  you  like  finery  better  than 
dancing? 


THE  SPANISH  GYrSY.  203 


HlNDA. 

Oh,  that  was  a  tale !  I  shall  tell  tales  too,  wheu  I  want  to  get  anything  I  can't 
steal.  And  I  know  what  I  will  do.  I  shall  tell  the  boys  I've  found  some  little 
foxes,  and  I  will  never  say  where  they  are  till  they  give  mc  back  the  -feather  ! 

(_Slte  runs  ojf  again.) 
Juan. 
Hem!  the  disciple  seems  to  seize  the  mode  sooner  than  the  matter.    Teaching 
virtue  with  this  prickly  pear  may  onJy  teaeh  the  youngsters  to  use  a  new  weapon  ; 
as  your  teaching  orthodoxy  with  fagots  may  only  bring  up  a  fashion  of  roasting. 
Dios  !  my  remarks  grow  too  pregnant— my  wits  get  a  plethora  by  solitary  feeding 
on  the  produce  of  my  own  wisdom. 
[As  he  puU  up  his  knife  again,  IIinpa  comes  running  back,  and  crying,  "  Our 
Queen!  our  Queen!"    Juan  adjusta  hin  garments  and  his  lute,  ivhile  IIinda 
turns  to  meet  Fkpalma,  tcho  wears  a  Moorish  dress,  her  black  hair  hanging 
round  Iter  in  -plaits,  a  white  turban  sn  Iter  head,  a  dagger  by  her  side.    Ske  car- 
ries q,  scar/  on  her  left  arm,  which  she  holds  up  as  a  sliade.) 

Fbdai.ma  (patting  IIisda's  head). 
How  now,  wild  one?    You  are  hot  and  panting.    Go  to  ray  tfint,  and  help 
Nouna  to  plait  reeds. 
(HiNDA  kisses  Fjcdai.ma's  hand,  and  runs  off.    Fedai.ma  advances  towards  Juan, 
who  kneels  to  take  up  the  edge  of  her  cymar,  and  kisses  it.) 

Juan. 

How  is  it  with  you,  lady  ?    Y'ou  look  sad. 

Fedai.ma. 

Oh,  I  am  sick  at  heart.     The  eye  of  day. 
The  insistent  summer  sun,  seems  pitiless. 
Shining  in  all  the  barren  crevices 
Of  weary  life,  leaving  no  shade,  no  dark, 
Where  I  may  dream  that  hidden  waters  lie ; 
As  pitiless  as  to  some  shipwrecked  man. 
Who  gazing  from  his  narrow  shoal  of  sand 
On  the  wide  uuspecked  round  of  blue  and  blue 
Sees  that  full  light  is  errorless  despair. 
The  insects'  hum  that  slurs  the  silent  dark 
Startles  and  seems  to  chest  me,  as  the  tread 
Of  coming  foots'teps  cheats  the  midnight  watcher 
Who  holds  her  heart  and  waits  to  hear  them  ])ause, 
And  hears  them  never  pause,  but  pass  and  die. 
Music  sweeps  by  me  as  a  messenger 
Carrying  a  message  that  is  not  for  me. 
•      The  very  sameness  of  the  hills  and  sky 
Is  obduracy,  and  the  lingering  hours 
Wait  round  mc  dumbly,  like  superfluous  slaves. 
Of  whom  I  want  nought  but  the  secret  news 
They  are  forbid  to  tell.     And,  Juan,  you— 
You,  too,  are  cruel — would  be  over-wise 
In  judging  your  friend's  needs,  and  choose  to  hide 
Something  I  crave  to  know. 

JCAN. 

I,  lady? 

Fkdat.ma. 

Yon, 


204:  TIIE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


Joan. 

I  never  had  the  virtue  to  liidc  auirht, 
!>:ivc  what  a  man  is  wliippcd  for  publi^^hiiic;. 
I'm  no  more  reticent  tlian  the  vohil)le  air- 
Dote  on  disclosure— never  could  contain 
The  latter  half  of  all  my  sentences, 
But  for  the  need  to  utter  the  beginning. 
My  lust  to  tell  is  so  importunate 
That  it  abridges  every  otlier  vice, 
And  makes  me  temperate  for  want  of  time. 
I  dull  seusatimi  in  the  haste  to  say 
'Tis  this  or  that,  and  choke  report  with  surmise. 
Judge  then,  dear  lady,  if  I  could  be  mute 
When  but  a  glance  of  yours  had  bid  me  speak. 

Fkdai-ma. 
Nay,  sing  such  falsities ! — you  mock  me  worse 
By  speech  that  gravely  seems  to  ask  belief. 
You  are  but  babbling  in  a  part  you  play 
To  please  my  father.    Oh,  'tis  well  meant,  say  you- 
Pity  for  woman's  weakness.    Take  my  tlianks. 

Juan. 

Thanks  angrily  bestowed  are  red-hot  coin 
Burning  your  servant's  palm. 

Fedalma. 

Deny  it  not, 
You  know  how  many  leagues  this  camp  of  ours 
Lies  from  Bedmar— what  mountains  lie  between  — 
Could  tell  me  if  you  would  about  the  Duke — 
Tliat  he  is  comforted,  sees  how  he  gains 
Losing  the  Zincala,  linds  now  how  slight 
The  thread  Fedalma  made  in  that  rich  web, 
A  Spanish  noble's  life.    No,  that  is  false  I 
He  never  would  think  lightly  of  our  love. 
Some  evil  has  befallen  him — he's  slain — 
Has  sought  for  danger  and  has  beckoned  death 
Because  I  made  all  life  seem  treachery. 
Tell  me  the  worst — be  merciful— no  worst, 
Against  the  hideous  painting  of  my  fear, 
Would  not  show  like  a  better. 

Juan. 

If  I  speak. 
Will  yon  believe  your  slave?    For  truth  is  scant; 
And  where  the  appetite  is  still  to  hear 
And  not  believe,  falsehood  would  stint  it  less. 
IIow  say  you  ?    Does  your  hunger's  fancy  choose 
Tlie  meagre  fact  ? 

Fudalma  {Heating  herself  on  the  grmmd). 

Yes,  yes,  the  truth,  dear  Juan. 
Sit  now,  and  tell  me  all. 

Juan. 
Tliat  all  is  nought. 
1  can  unleash  my  fancy  if  you  wish 


THE  SPAl^ISn  GYPSY.  205 

And  hi'iut  for  phautoms:  shoot  an  airy  guess 

And  bring  down  airy  likelihood— some  lie 

Masked  cuiiuiugly  to  look  like  royal  tiiiili 

And  cheat  the  shooter,  while  King  Fact  goes  free; 

Or  else  some  image  of  reality 

That  doubt  will  handle  and  reject  as  false. 

As  for  conjecture — I  can  thread  the  sky 

Like  any  swallow,  but,  if  you  insist 

On  knowledge  tliat  would  guide  a  pair  of  foot 

Right  to  Bedniiir,  across, the  Moorish  bounds, 

A  mule  that  dreams  of  stumbling  over  stones 

Is  better  stored. 

Fedalma. 

And  you  have  gathered  nought 
About  the  border  wars?    No  news,  no  hint 
Of  any  rumors  that  concern  the  Duke — 
Kumors  kept  from  nic  by  my  father? 

-Juan. 

None. 
Yonr  father  trusts  no  secret  to  ihe  echoes. 
Of  late  his  movements  have  been  hid  from  all 
Save  those  few  hundred  chosen  Gypsy  breasts 
lie  carries  with  him.    Think  you  he's  a  man 
To  let  his  projects  slip  from  out  his  belt, 
Then  whisper  him  who  haps  to  find  them  strayed 
To  be  so  kind  as  keep  his  counsel  well? 
Wliy,  if  he  found  nie  knowing  anght  too  much. 
He  would  straight  gag  or  strangle  me,  and  say, 
"Poor  hound  !  ii  was  a  pity  that  his  bark 
Could  chance  to  mar  my  plans:  he  loved  my  daughter- - 
The  idle  hound  had  nouglit  to  do  but  love. 
So  followed  to  the  battle  and  got  crushed." 

Fedalma  {holding  out  her  hand,  which  Juajj  kisses). 

Good  Juan,  I  could  have  no  nobler  friend. 

You'd  ope  your  veins  and  let  yonr  life-blood  out 

To  save  another's  pain,  yet  hide  the  deed 

With  jesting— say,  'twas  merest  accident, 

A  sportive  scratch  that  went  by  chance  too  deep — 

And  die  content  with  men's  slight  thoughts  of  you. 

Finding  your  glory  in  another's  joy. 

Juan. 

Dub  not  my  likings  virtues,  lest  they  get 
A  drug-like  taste,  and  breed  a  nausea. 
Honey's  not  sweet,  commended  as  cathartic. 
Such  names  are  parchment  labels  upon  gems. 
Hiding  their  color.     What  is  lovely  seen 
Priced  in  a  tariff? — lapis  lazuli, 
Such  bulk,  so  many  drachmas:  amethysts 
Quoted  at  so  much ;  sapphires  higher  still. 
'J'he  stone  like  solid  heaven  in  its  blucnoss 
Is  what  I  care  fi)r,  not  its  name  or  jiricc. 
So,  if  I  live  or  die  to  serve  my  friend, 
'Tls  fov  my  love— 'tis  for  my  friend  alone. 


306  THE  SPA2JISU  GYPSY. 

And  not  for  any  rate  that  fricnclt^hii)  bears 
In  heavi-n  or  on  earth.    Nay,  I  romance — 
I  talk  of  Kolanil  and  tlie  ancient  puurt;. 
Ill  me  'tis  hardly  friendship,  only  lack 
Of  a  substantial  self  that  holds  a  weight ; 
So  I  kiss  larger  things  and  roll  with  them. 

Fedalma. 

Oh,  yon  will  never  hide  your  soul  from  mc ; 
I've  seen  the  jewel's  flash,  and  know  'tis  there, 
Muffle  it  as  you  will.    That  foam-like  talk 
Will  not  wash  out  a  fear  which  blots  the  good 
Your  presence  brings  nie.    Oft  I'm  pierced  afresh 
Through  all  the  pressure  of  my  sellish  griefs 
By  thought  of  yon.    It  was  a  rash  resolve 
Made  you  disclose  yourself  when  you  kept  watch 
About  the  terrace  wall : — your  i)ity  leaped, 
Seeing  alone  my  ills  and  not  your  loss, 
Self-doomed  to  exile.    Juan,  you  must  repent. 
'Tis  not  in  nature  tliat  resolve,  which  feeds 
On  strenuous  actions,  should  not  pine  and  die 
In  these  long  days  of  empty  listlessuess. 

Juan. 

Repent?    Not  I.     Repentance  is  the  weight 

Of  indigested  meals  ta'en  yesterday. 

'Tis  for  large  animals  that  gorge  on  prey. 

Not  for  a  honey-sipping  butterfly. 

I  am  a  thing  of  rhythm  and  redondillas— 

The  momentary  rainbow  on  the  spray 

Made  by  the  thundering  torrent  of  men's  lives: 

No  matter  whether  I  am  here  or  there; 

I  still  catch  sunbeams.    Aud  in  Africa, 

Where  melons  and  all  fruits,  they  say,  grow  Imge, 

Fables  are  real,  and  the  apes  polite, 

A  i)oet,  too,  may  prosper  past  belief: 

I  shall  grow  epic,  like  the  Florentine, 

And  sing  the  founding  of  our  infant  state, 

Sing  the  new  Gypsy  Carthage. 

Fedalma. 

Africa  I 
Would  we  were  there !    Under  another  heaven, 
lu  lauds  where  neither  love  nor  memory 
Can  plant  a  sclfisli  hope— in  lands  so  far 
I  should  not  seem  to  see  the  outstretched  arms 
That  seek  me,  or  to  hear  the  voice  that  calls. 
I  should  feel  distance  only  and  despair ; 
So  rest  forever  from  the  thought  of  bliss, 
Aud  wear  my  weight  of  life's  great  chain  unstruggling. 
Juan,  if  I  could  know  he  would  forget- 
Nay,  not,  forget,  forgive  me — be  content 
That  I  forsook  him  for  no  joy,  but  sorrow, 
For  sorrow  chosen  rather  than  a  joy 
That  destiny  made  base !    Then  he  would  taste 
No  bitterness  in  sweet,  sad  memory. 
And  I  should  lived  unblemished  in  his  thought, 


TnE   SPANISH  GYPSY.  207 

Hallowed  like  her  who  dies  an  nnwed  bride. 

Our  words  have  wing?,  but  fly  not  where  we  would. 

Could  mine  but  reach  hitu,  Juan ! 

Juan. 

Speak  the  wish — 
My  feet  have  wings — I'll  be  your  Mercury. 
I  tear  no  shadowed  perils  by  the  way. 
No  man  will  wear  the  sharpness  of  his  sword 
On  me.    Nay,  I'm  a  herald  of  the  Muse, 
Sacred  for  Moors  and  Spaniards.    I  will  go- 
Will  fetch  you  tidings  for  an  amulet. 
But  stretch  not  hope  too  strongly  towards  that  niaik 
As  issue  of  my  wandering.    Given,  1  cross 
Safely  the  Moorish  border,  reach  BedmAr  : 
Fresh  counsels  may  prevail  there,  and  the  Duke 
Being  absent  in  the  field,  I  may  be  trapped. 
Men  who  are  sour  at  missing  larger  game 
May  win^  a  chattering  sparrow  for  revenge. 
It  is  a  chance  no  further  worth  the  note 
Than  as  a  warning,  lest  you  feared  worse  ill 
If  my  return  were  stayed.     I  might  be  caged  ; 
They  would  not  harm  me  else.    Untimely  death, 
The  red  auxiliary  of  the  skeleton, 
lias  too  much  work  on  hand  to  think  of  me; 
Or,  if  he  cares  to  slay  me,  I  shall  fall 
Choked  with  a  grape-stone  for  economy. 
The  likelier  chance  is  that  I  go  and  come, 
Bringing  you  comfort  back. 

Fedalma  {starts  frmn  her  scat  and  walks  to  a  little  distance,  standing  a  few 

moments  u-ith  her  back  towards  Ju.\n,  then  she  turns  round  quickly,  and 

ancs  towards  him). 

No,  Juan,  no ! 

Those  yearning' words  came  from  a  soul  iutlrm. 

Crying  and  struggling  at  the  pain  of  bonds 

Which  yet  it  would  not  loosen.     He  knows  all — 

All  that  he  needs  to  know:  I  said  farewell: 

I  stepped  across  the  cracking  earth  and  knew 

'Twould  yawn  behind  me.    I  must  walk  right  on. 

No,  I  will  not  win  aught  by  risking  you: 

That  risk  would  poison  my  i)Oor  hope.    Besides, 

'Twere  treachery  in  me :  my  father  wills 

That  we— all  here — should  rest  within  this  camp. 

If  I  can  never  live,  like  him,  on  faith 

In  glorious  morrows,  I  am  resolute. 

While  he  treads  painfully  with  stillest  step 

And  beady  brow,  pressed  'ueath  the  weight  of  arms. 

Shall  I.  to  ease  my  fevered  restlessness. 

Raise  peevish  moans,  shattering  that  fragile  silence? 

No !    On  the  close-thronged  spaces  of  the  earth 

A  battle  rages:  Fate  has  carried  me 

'Mid  the  thick  arrows :  I  will  keep  my  stand — 

Not  shrink  and  let  the  shaft  pass  by  my  breast 

To  pierce  another.    Oh,  'tis  written  large 

The  thing  I  have  to  do.    But  yon,  dear  Juan, 

Renounce,  endme,  arc  brave,  unurged  by  aught 

Save  the  sweet  overflow  of  your  good  will. 

(She  seats  herself  againy 


208  THE  SPANISU  GYl'SY. 

Juan. 

Nay,  I  endure  nought  worse  than  napping  sheep 

When  nimble  birds  uproot  a  fleecy  luck 

To  line  tlieir  nest  villi.    Sec  I  your  boiidsmiiu,  Quceu, 

The  minstrel  of  your  court,  is  feathcrless; 

Deforms  your  presence  by  a  monlting  garb; 

Shows  like  a  roadfide  bush  culled  of  its  buds 

Yet,  if  your  graciousncss  will  not  disdain 

A  poor  plucked  songster— shall  he  sing  to  you? 

Some  lay  of  afternoons— some  ballad  strain 

Of  those  who  ached  once  hut  are  sleeping  now 

Under  tlie  sun-warmed  flowers?    'Twill  cheat  the  tiiuo. 

Fed  ALMA. 

Thanks,  Juan— later,  when  this  hour  is  passed. 
My  soul  is  clogged  with  self;  it  could  not  float 
On  with  the  pleasing  sadness  of  your  song. 
Leave  me  in  this  green  spot,  l)ut  come  again,— 
Come  with  the  lengthening  shadows. 

Juan. 

Then  your  plavc 
Will  go  to  chase  the  robbers.    Queen,  farewell  I 

Fki>ahia. 
Best  friend,  my  well-spriug  in  the  wilderness! 

[While  Juan  sped  along  the  stream,  there  came 
From  the  dark  tents  a  ringing  joyous  shout 
That  thrilled  Fedalma  with  a  summons  grave 
Yet  welcome,  too.    Straightway  she  rose  and  stood, 
All  languor  banished,  with  a  soul  suspense, 
Like  one  who  waits  high  presence,  listening. 
Was  it  a  message,  or  her  father's  self 
That  made  the  camp  so  glad? 

It  was  himself! 
She  saw  him  uow  advancing,  girt  with  arms 
That  seemed  like  idle  trophies  hung  for  show 
Beside  tlie  weight  and  fire  of  living  strength 
That  made  his  frame.    lie  glanced  with  absent  triumph, 
As  one  who  conquers  in  some  field  afar 
And  bears  off  unseen  spoil.    But  uearing  her, 
His  terrible  eyes  intense  sent  forth  new  rays— 
A  snddeu  sunshine  where  the  lightning  was 
•Twist  meeting  dark.    All  tenderly  he  laid 
His  hand  upon  her  shoulder  ;  tenderly, 
His  kiss  upon  her  brow.] 

Zakoa. 
My  royal  daughter  I 
Fedalma. 
Father,  I  joy  to  sec  your  safe  return. 

Zauoa. 
Nay,  I  but  stole  the  time,  as  hungry  men 
Steal  from  the  morrow's  meal,  made  a  forced  march, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  .20D 

Left  Hassan  as  my  watch-dog,  all  to  see 
My  daughter,  aud  to  feel  her  famished  hope 
With  uews  of  promise. 

'Fed  ALMA. 

Is  the  tas^k  achieved 
That  was  to  be  the  herald  of  our  flight  ? 

Zacoa. 

Not  outwardly,  but  to  my  inward  vision 
Thiugs  are  achieved  when  they  are  well  begun. 
The  perfect  archer  calls  the  deer  his  own 
While  yet  the  shaft  is  whistling.    Hie  keen  eye 
Never  sees  failure,  sees  the  mark  alone. 
You  have  heard  nought,  then — had  no  messenger  V 

Fed  alma. 

I,  father  ?  no :    each  quiet  day  has  fled 

Like  the  same  moth,  returning  with  slow  wing, 

Aud  pausiug  iu  the  suushine. 

Zakoa. 

It  is  well. 

You  shall  not  long  count  days  iu  weariness. 
Ere  the  full  moon  has  waned  again  to  new. 
We  shall  reach  Alraeria:   Berber  ships 
Will  take  us  for  their  freight,  and  we  shall  go 
With  plenteous  spoil,  not  stolen,  bravely  won 
By  service  done  on  Spaniards.     Do  you  shrink? 
Are  you  aught  less  than  a  true  Zincala  ? 

Fedalma. 
No ;  but  I  am  more.    The  Spaniards  fostered  me. 

Zakca. 

They  stole  you  first,  aud  reared  you  for  the  flames. 
I  found  you,  rescued  you,  that  you  might  live 
A  Ziiicala's  life;   I  saved  you  from  their  doom. 
Y'our  bridal  bed  had  been  the  rack. 

Feualma  {in  a  low  tone). 

They  meant — 
To  seize  me?— ere  he  came? 

Zarca. 

Yes,  I  know  all. 
They  found  your  chamber  emi)ty. 

Fedalma  {carjerbj). 

Then  you  know — 

{checking  hersc/f. ) 
Father,  my  soul  would  be  less  laggard,  fed 
With  fuller  trust. 

Zaeoa. 

My  daughter,  I  must  keep 
The  Arab's  secret.    Arabs  are  our  friends, 
2i  K 


210  THE  SPAKISH  GYPSY. 

Grnppliiip;  for  life  with  Christians  wlio  lay  wasto 

Graiu'ula's  valleys,  and  witli  devilish  hoofs 

Trample  ihc  young  f^rccn  corn,  witli  devilish  play 

Fell  blossomed  trees,  and  tear  up  wcll-pnincd  vines: 

Cruel  as  tigers  to  the  vanquished  brave, 

They  wring  out  gold  by  oaths  lliey  mean  to  brealt ; 

Take  pay  for  pity  and  are  pitiless; 

Then  tinkle  bells  above  the  desolate  earth 

And  praise  their  monstrous  gods,  supposed  to  lovu 

The  flattery  of  liars.    I  will  strike 

The  full-gorged  dragon.     Yon,  my  child,  must  watch 

The  battle  wiih  a  heart,  not  fliitteiing 

But  duteous,  iirm-weighted  by  resolve, 

Clioosiug  between  two  lives,  like  her  who  holds 

A  dagger  wliich  must  pierce  one  of  two  breasts, 

And  one  of  them  her  father's.     You  divine — 

I  speak  not  closely,  but  in  parables ; 

Put  one  for  many. 

Fedai.ma  {collecting  herself  and  looking  firmly  at  Zavma)^ 

Then  it  is  your  will 
That  I  ask  nothing  ? 

Zakca. 
You  shall  know  enough 
To  trace  the  sequence  of  the  seed  and  flower. 
El  Zagal  trusts  me,  rates  my  counsel  high: 
He,  knowing  I  have  won  a  grant  of  lands 
Within  the  Berber's  realm,  wills  me  to  be 
The  tongue  of  his  good  cause  in  Africa, 
So  gives  us  furtherance  in  our  pilgrimage 
For  service  hoped,  as  well  as  service  done 
In  that  great  feat  of  which  I  am  the  eye, 
And  my  live  hundred  Gypsies  the  best  arm. 
More,  I  am  charged  by  other  noble  Moors 
With  messages  of  weight  to  Telemsau. 
lla,  your  eye  flashes.    Are  you  glad  ? 

Fjcdai.ma. 

Yes,  glad 
That  men  can  greatly  Vrnst  a  Zincalo. 

Zaeoa. 
Why,  fighting  for  dear  life  men  choose  their  swords 
For  cutting  only,  not  for  oruament. 
What  nought  but  Nature  gives,  man  takes  perforce 
Where  she  bestows  it,  though  in  vilest  place. 
Can  he  compress  invention  out.  of  pride. 
Make  heirship  do  the  work  of  muscle,  sail 
Towards  great  discoveries  with  a  jiedigree? 
Sick  men  ask  cures,  and  Nature  serves  not  hers 
Daintily  as  a  feast.    A  blacksmith  once 
Founded  a  dynasty,  and  raised  on  high 
The  leathern  apron  over  armies  spread 
Between  the  mountains  like  a  lake  of  steel. 

Fkdai.ma  (hittcrbj). 
To  be  contemned,  then,  is  fair  augury. 
That  pledge  of  future  good  at  least  is  ours. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  SH 


Zarca. 

Let  meu  CDiitemn  us:  'tis  such  blind  contempt 

That  leaves  the  winged  broods  to  thrive  in  warmth 

Unheeded,  till  they  fill  the  air  like  storms. 

So  we  shall  thrive — still  darkly  shall  draw  force 

Into  a  new  and  miiltitudinons  life 

That  likeness  fashions  to  community, 

Mother  divine  of  customs,  faith  and  laws. 

'Tis  ripeness,  'tis  fame's  zenith  that  kills  hope. 

Huge  oaks  are  dyinj:,  forests  yet  to  come 

Lie  in  the  twigs  and  rotten-seeming  seeds. 

Fkoalma. 

And  our  wild  Zincali?    'Neath  their  rough  husk 
Can  you  discern  such  seed?    You  said  our  band 
Was  the  best  arm  of  some  hard  enterprise ; 
They  jjive  out  sparks  of  virtue,  then,  and  show 
There's  metal  in  their  earth? 

Zasca. 

Ay,  metal  fine 
In  ray  brave  Gypsies.    Not  the  lithest  Moor 
Has  lither  limbs  for  scaling,  keener  eye 
To  mark  the  meaning  of  the  furthest  sjieck 
That  tells  of  change  ;  and  they  are  disciplined 
By  faitli  iu  me,  to  such  obedience 
As  needs  no  spy.    My  scalers  and  my  scouts 
Are  to  the  Moorish  force  they're  leagued  withal 
As  bow-string  to  ihe  bow;   while  I,  their  chief, 
Command  the  enterprise  and  guide  the  will 
Of  Moorish  captains,  as  the  pilot  guides 
With  eye-instructed  hand  tha  passive  helm. 
For  high  device  is  still  the  highest  force. 
And  he  who  holds  the  secret  of  the  wheel 
May  make  the  rivers  do  what  work  he  would. 
Wiih  thoughts  impalixxble  we  clutch  men's  souls. 
Weaken  the  joints  of  armies,  make  them  fly 
Like  dust  and  leaves  before  the  viewless  wind. 
Tell  me  what's  mirrored  iu  the  tiger's  heart, 
I'll  rule  that  too. 

Fedalma  (wrought  to  a  glow  of  admiration). 

O  my  imperial  father ! 
'Tis  where  there  breathes  a  mighty  soul  like  yours 
That  men's  contempt  is  of  good  augury. 

Zarca  (seizing  both  Fudai.ma's  hands,  and  looking  at  her  seajrchinghj). 

And  you,  my  daughter,  what  are  you— if  not 

The  Zincalo's  chiid?    Say,  does  not  his  great  hope 

Thrill  in  your  veins  like  shouts  of  victory? 

'Tis  a  vile  life  that  like  a  garden  pool 

Lies  stagnant  in  the  round  of  personal  loves; 

That  has  no  ear  save  for  the  tickling  lute 

Set  to  small  measures— deaf  to  all  the  beats 

Of  that  large  music  rolling  o'er  the  world: 


213  TUE  SPANISH  GYPSy. 

A  miserable,  petty,  low-roofed  life, 

That  knows  the  uiif^hty  orbits  of  the  Bkies 

Tlu-otigti  iion^lit  pave  li;,'lit  or  dark  in  its  own  cabin. 

The  very  l)rntcs  will  feel  the  force  of  kind 

And  move  togetlicr,  gatliering  a  new  bouI— 

The  8onl  of  niMllitndcs.    S^y  now,  my  cliikl. 

You  will  not  falter,  not  look  back  and  long 

For  nnfledgod  ease  in  some  soft,  alien  nest. 

Tlie  crane  with  outspread  wing  that  heads  the  tile 

Pauses  not,  feels  no  backward  impulses: 

Behind  it  summer  was,  and  is  no  more ; 

Before  it  lies  ihe  summer  it  will  reach 

Or  perish  in  mid-ocean.    You  no  less 

Must  feel  the  force  sublime  of  growins;  life. 

New  thoughts  are  urgent  as  the  growth  of  wings; 

The  widening  vision  is  imperious 

As  higher  members  bursting  the  worm's  sheath. 

You  cannot  grovel  in  the  worm's  delights: 

Y'ou  must  take  winged  i)leasures,  winged  pains. 

Arc  you  not  steadfast?    Will  you  live  or  die 

For  aught  below  your  royal  heritage? 

To  liim  who  holds  the  flickering  brief  torch 

That  lights  a  beacon  for  the  perishing, 

Aught  else  is  crime.    Would  you  let  drop  the  torch  ? 

FlCHAlaMA. 

Father,  my  soul  is  weak,  the  mist  of  tears 

Still  rises  to  my  eyes,  and  hides  the  goal 

Which  to  your  undimmed  sight  is  fixed  and  clear. 

But  if  I  cannot  plant  resolve  on  hojie. 

It  will  stand  firm  on  certainty  of  woe. 

I  choose  tlie  ill  that  is  most  like  to  end 

With  my  i>oor  being.     Hopes  have  precarious  life. 

They  are  oft  blighted,  withered,  suai)ped  sheer  off 

lu  vigorous  growth  and  turned  to  rottenness. 

But  f^iithfuluess  can  feed  on  suffering. 

And  knows  no  disappointment.    Trust  in  met 

If  it  were  needed,  this  poor  trembling  hand 

Should  grasp  the  torch— strive  not  to  let  it  fall 

Though  it  were  burning  down  close  to  my  flesh, 

No  beacon  lighted  yet:   through  the  damp  dark 

I  should  still  hear  the  cry  of  gasping  swimmers. 

Father,  I  will  be  true ! 

Zauo\. 

I  trust  that  word. 
And,  for  your  sadness— you  are  young— the  bruise 
Will  leave  no  mark.    The  worst  of  misery 
Is  when  a  nature  framed  for  noblest  things 
Condemns  itself  in  youth  to  petty  joys. 
And,  sore  alhirst  for  air,  breathes  scanty  life 
Gasping  from  out  the  shallows.    Y<iu  are  saved 
From  such  poor  doubleuess.    The  lil'e  we  choose 
Breathes  high,  and  sees  a  fnll-arched  firmament. 
Our  deeds  .shall  speak  like  rock-hewn  messages, 
Teaching  great  purpose  to  the  distant  time. 


THE   SPANISH  GYPSY.  313 

Now  I  must  hasten  back.     I  shall  but  speak 
To  Nailar  of  the  order  he  must  keep 
lu  setting  watch  and  victualling.     The  stare 
And  the  young  moon  must  see  me  at  my  po.ut. 
Nay,  rest  you  here.     Farewell,  my  younger  self — 
Strong-hearted  daughter!    Shall  I  live  in  you 
When  the  earth  covers  me  ? 

Fedalha. 

My  father,  death 
Should  give  your  will  divineness,  make  it  strong 
With  the  beseechings  of  a  mighty  soul 
That  left  its  work  unflnished.    Kiss  me  uow: 

{They  embrace,  and  xhc  adds  tremulously  as  they  part,) 

And  when  you  see  fair  hair,  be  pitiful. 

[Exit  Zauoa. 

(Fkdai.ma  sc«f.s  herself  on  the  bank,  leayis  her  head  forward,  and  covers 
her  face  with  her  drapery.  While  she  is  seated  thus,  Hinda  comes  from 
the  bank,  with  a  branch  of  viusk  roses  in  her  hand.  Seeing  Fkdai.ma 
loith  head  bent  and  covered,  she  pauses,  and  begins  to  move  on  tiptoe.) 

IilNI>A. 

Our  Queen!    Can  she  be  crying?    There  she  sits 
As  I  did  every  day  when  my  dog  Saad 
Sickened  and  yelled,  and  seemed  to  yell  so  loud 
After  we  buried  him,  I  oped  his  grave. 
{She  comes  .forward  on  tiptoe,  k7icels  at  Fkdalma's /ccf,  and  evibracci  them. 
Fr.DALMA  uncovers  licr  head.) 

Fedai.ma. 
Hinda!  what  is  it? 

Hini>a. 

Queen,  a  branch  of  roses — 
So  sweet,  you'll  love  to  smell  them.     'Twas  the  last. 
I  climbed  the  bank  to  get  it  before  Tralla, 
And  slipped  and  scratched  my  arm.    But  I  don't  mind. 
You  love  the  roses — so  do  I.    I  wish 
The  sky  would  rain  down  roses,  as  they  rain 
From  oti"  the  shaken  bush.    Why  will  it  not? 
Then  all  the  valley  would  be  pink  and  white 
And  soft  to  tread  on.     They  would  fall  as  light 
As  feathers,  smelling  sweet  ;  and  it  would  be 
Like  sleeping  and  yet  waking,  all  at  once! 
Over  the  sea,  Queen,  where  we  soon  shall  go, 
W^ill  it  rain  roses? 

FunALMA. 

No,  my  prattler,  no ! 
It  never  will  rain  roses:   when  we  want 
To  have  more  roses  we  must  plant  more  trees. 
But  yon  want  nothir.g,  little  one — the  world 
Just  suits  you  as  it  suits  the  tawny  squirrels. 
Come,  you  want  nothing. 

Hinda. 

Yes,  I  want  more  berries — 
Red  cues— to  wind  about  my  neck  and  arms 


314  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

When  I  am  married— on  my  ankles  too 

I  want  to  wind  rud  l)crries,  and  on  my  liead. 

Fl2»\T-MA. 

Who  is  it  yon  arc  fond  of?    Tell  nic,  now. 

IIlNPA. 

0  Qneen,  you  know!    It  could  be  no  one  eli=e 
But  Ismai'l.    He  catches  all  the  birds, 

Knows  where  the  speckled  lish  aic,  scales  tlie  roclse, 
And  sinj^s  and  dances  with  me  when  I  like-. 
Uow  shonld  I  marry  and  not  marry  him  ? 

Fedalma. 
Should  you  have  loved  him,  had  he  been  a  Moor, 
Or  white  Castiliau  ? 

HiNDA  {starting  to  her  feet,  then  kneeling  again). 
Are  you  angry,  Queen  ? 
Say  why  you  will  think  shame  of  your  poor  Iliiida? 
She'd  sooner  be  a  rat  and  hang  on  thorns 
To  parch  until  the  wind  had  scattered  her, 
Thau  be  an  outeast,  spit  at  by  her  tribe. 

FlCnALMA. 

1  think  no  evil— am  not  angry,  chikL 

But  would  3'ou  i)art  from  Ismael  ?   leave  him  uow 
If  your  chief  bade  you— said  it  was  for  good 
To"  all  your  tribe  that  you  must  part  from  him? 

IlranA  {giving  a  sharp  cry). 
Ah,  will  he  say  so? 

Fkdalma  {almost  fierce  in  her  earnestness). 
Nay,  child,  answer  me. 
Could  you  teave  IsmaiU  ?   get  into  a  boat 
And  see  the  waters  widen  'twixt  yon  two 
Till  all  was  water  and  you  saw  him  not. 
And  knew  that  you  would  never  see  him  more? 
If  'twas  your  chiefs  command,  and  if  he  said 
Your  tribe  would  all  be  slaughtered,  die  of  plague, 
Of  famine— madly  drink  each  other's  blood  .  .  . 

HnNDA  (treinUing). 

0  Qucea,  if  it  is  so,  tell  Ismael. 

Fedalma. 
You  would  obc}-,  then?  part  from  him  forever? 

IIlNDA. 

llow  could  we  live  else?    With  our  brethren  lost?— 
No  marriage  feast?    The  dny  would  turn  to  dark. 
A  Zincala  cannot  live  without  her  tribe. 

1  must  obey!    Poor  Ismael— poor  Ilinda! 
But  will  it  ever  be  so  cold  and  daik? 
Oh,  I  would  sit  upon  the  rocks  aud  cry. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  315 

And  cry  so  long  that  I  could  cry  no  more: 
Then  I  sliould  go  to  sleep. 

Fed  AIM  A. 

No,  Ilinda,  no  ! 
Thou  never  shalt  be  called  to  part  from  him. 
I  will  have  berries  for  thee,  red  and  black, 
And  I  will  be  so  glad  to  see  thee  glad. 
That  earth  will  seem  to  hold  enough  of  joy 
To  outweigh  all  the  pangs  of  those  who  part. 
Be  comforted,  bright  eyes.    See,  I  will  tie 
These  roses  in  a  crown,  for  thee  to  wear. 

HiNDA  {clapping  her  hands,  while  Fedai.ma  puts  the  roses  on  her  head). 

Oh,  I'm  as  glad  as  many  little  foxes— 
I  will  find  ismaCl,  and  tell  him  all. 

{She  rnns  off.) 
Fedai.ma  (alone). 

She  has  the  strength  I  lack.    Within  her  world 

The  dial  has  not  .<tirred  since  first  she  woke: 

No  changing  light  has  made  the  shadows  die, 

And  taught  her  trusting  soul  sad  difference. 

For  her,  good,  right,  and  law  are  all  summed  up 

In  what  is  possible:    life  is  one  web 

Where  love,  joy,  kindred,  and  obedience 

Lie  fast  and  even,  in  one  warp  and  woof 

With  thirst  and  drinking,  hunger,  food,  and  sleep. 

She  knows  no  struggles,  sees  no  double  path: 

Her  fate  is  freedom,  for  lier  will  is  one 

With  her  own  people's  law,  the  only  law 

She  ever  knew.    For  me — I  have  fire  within. 

But  on  my  will  there  falls  the  chilling  snow 

Of  thoughts  that  come  as  subtly  as  soft  flakes, 

Yet  press  at  last  with  hard  and  icy  weight. 

I  could  be  tirin,  could  give  myself  the  wrench 

And  wallc  erect,  hiding  my  life-long  wound, 

If  I  but.  saw  the  fruit  of  all  my  pain 

AVith  that  strong  vision  which  commands  the  S(ml, 

And  makes  great  awe  the  monarch  of  desire. 

But  now  I  totter,  seeing  no  far  goal : 

I  tread  the  rocky  pass,  and  pause  and  grasp, 

Guided  by  flashes.     When  my  father  comes. 

And  breathes  into  my  soul  his  generous  lnri>e — 

By  his  own  greatness  making  life  seem  great. 

As  the  clear  Iieaveus  bring  sublimity, 

And  show  earth  larger,  spanned  by  that  blue  v.ist— 

Resolve  is  strong:  I  can  embrace  my  sorrow, 

Nor  nicely  weigh  the  fruit ;  possessed  with  need 

Solely  to  do  the  noblest,  though  it  failed — 

Though  lava  streamed  upon  my  breathing  deed 

And  buried  it  in  night  and  barrenness. 

But  soon  the  glow  dies  out,  the  trumpet  strain 

That  vibrated  as  strength  throiigli  all  my  limbs 

Is  heard  no  longer;  over  the  wide  scene 

There's  nought  but  chill  gray  silence,  or  the  hum 

And  fltfnl  discoid  of  a  vulgar  world. 


216  TiiE  srANisn  gtpsy. 

Then  I  sink  helpless— pink  into  the  arms 

Of  all  sweet  mcmoi-ios,  and  dream  of  bliss; 

Sec  looks  that  |)euoti-ate  like  tones;  hear  tones 

That  flash  looks  with  them.    Even  now  I  feel 

Soft  ail's  enwrap  me,  as  if  yearning  rays 

Of  some  far  presence  tonched  me  with  their  warmth 

And  brought  a  tender  murmuring  .  .  . 

[While  she  mused, 
A  fignre  came  from  out  the  olive-trees 
That  bent  close-whispering  'twixt  the  parted  hills 
Beyond  the  crescent  of  thick  cactus:  paused 
At  sight  of  her ;  then  slowly  moved 
With  carsfnl  steps,  and  gently  said,  "Fkdai.ma!" 
Fearing  lest  fancy  had  enslaved  her  sense. 
She  quivered,  rose,  but  turned  not.    Soon  again  : 
"Fkdai.ma,  it  is  Sii.va!"    Then  she  turned. 
He,  with  bared  head  and  arms  entreating,  beamed 
Like  morning  on  her.    Vision  held  her  still 
One  moment,  then  with  gliding  motion  swift, 
Inevitable  as  the  melting  ."tream's. 
She  found  her  rest  within  his  circling  arms.] 

Fepai.ma. 
O  love,  you  are  living,  and  believe  in  me! 

Don  Silva. 

Once  more  we  are  together.    AVishing  dies- 
Stifled  with  bliss. 

Fedalma. 

Yon  did  not  hate  me,  then- 
Think  me  an  ingrate— think  my  love  was  small 
That  I  forsook  you  ? 

Don  SiLVA. 

Dear,  I  trusted  yon 
As  holy  men  trust  God.    You  could  do  nought 
That  was  not  i)ure  and  loving— though  the  deed 
Might  pierce  me  unto  death.    You  had  less  trust, 
Since  you  suspected  mine.    'Tvvas  wicked  doubt. 

Pf-dalma. 

Nay,  when  I  saw  you  hating  me,  the  fanlt 
Seemed  in  my  lot— my  bitter  birthright— liers 
On  whom  you  lavished  all  your  wealth  of  love 
As  price  of  nought,  but  sorrow.     Then  I  said, 
"  'Tis  better  so.    lie  will  be  happier  !" 
But  soon  that  thought,  struggling  to  be  a  hope. 
Would  end  in  tears. 

Don  Sii.va, 

It  was  a  cruel  thought. 
Happier!    True  miseiy  is  not  begun 
Until  I  cease  to  love  thee. 

Feda  lma. 
Silva ! 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  217 

Don  Silva. 

Mine ! 
(Thc!j  stand  a  moment  or  two  in  silence.) 

Fedalma. 
I  thought  I  had  so  much  to  tell  you,  love — 
Loug  eloquent  stories — how  it  all  befell — 
The  solemn  message,  calling  me  away 
To  awful  spoiisals,  where  my  own  dead  joy, 
A  conscious  ghost,  looked  ou  and  saw  me  wed. 

Don  Silva. 

Oh,  that  grave  si)eech  would  cumber  our  quick  souls 
Like  bells  that  waste  the  momeuts  with  their  loudness. 

Fedalma. 

And  if  it  all  were  said,  'twould  end  in  this, 
That  I  still  loved  you  when  I  fled  away. 
'Tis  no  more  wisdom  than  the  liitle  birds 
Make  known  by  their  soft  twitter  when  they  feel 
Each  other's  heart  beat. 

Don  Silva. 

All  the  deepest  things 
We  now  say  with  our  eyes  and  meeting  pulse: 
Our  voices  need  but  prattle. 

Fedalma. 

I  forget 
All  the  drear  days  of  thirst  in  this  one  draught. 

(Again  they  are  silent  for  a  few  moments.) 
But  tell  me  how  you  came?    Where  are  your  guards? 
Is  there  no  risk  ?    And  now  I  look  at  you, 
This  garb  is  strange  .  .  . 

Don  Silva. 

I  came  alone. 

Fedalma. 

Alone? 
Don  Silva. 

Yes— fled  in  secret.    There  was  no  way  else 
To  find  you  safely. 

Fbdalma  {letting  one  hand  fall  and  m.oving  a  little  from,  him  with  a  look  of 
■sudden  terror,  while  he  clasps  her  m,ore  firmly  by  the  other  arm). 

Silva ! 
Don  Silva. 

It  is  nought. 
Enough  that  I  am  here.    Now  we  will  cling. 
What  power  shall  hinder  us?    You  left  me  once 
To  set  your  father  free.    That  task  is  done, 
And  you  are  mine  again.    I  have  braved  all 
That  I  might  find  yon,  see  your  father,  win 
llis  furtherance  in  bearing  you  away 
To  some  safe  refuge.    Are  we  not  betrothed? 

24*  K* 


318  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

FKnALMA. 

Oh,  I  am  trembling  'ncath  the  rush  of  thoughts 
Th:it  come  like  griefs  at  morning— look  at  me 
With  awfnl  facc.i,  from  the  vanishing  haze 
That  momently  had  hidden  them. 

Don  Su.va. 

What  thoughts? 
Fkdai.ma. 
Forgotten  bnrials.    There  lies  a  grave 
Between  this  visionary  present  and  the  past. 
Our  joy  is  dead,  and  only  smiles  on  us 
A  loving  shade  from  out  the  place  of  tombs. 

Don  Sii.VA. 
Your  love  is  faiut,  else  aught  that  parted  us 
Would  seem  but  superstition.    Love  supreme 
Defies  dream-terrors — risks  avenging  fires. 
I  have  risked  all  things.    But  your  love  is  faint. 

Fedalma  (retreating  a  little,  but  keeping  his  Jiaml). 

Silva,  if  now  between  us  came  a  sword, 
Severed  my  aim,  and  left  our  two  hands  clasped, 
This  poor  maimed  arm  would  feel  the  clasp  till  death. 
What  parts  us  is  a  sword  .  .  . 

Zaboa  has  been  advancing  in  the  background.  He  han  drawn  his  mwrd, 
and  now  thrustn  the  naked  blade  between  them.  Don  Silta  lets  go  Fk- 
dalma'b  hand,  and  grasps  his  sivord.  Fkdai.ma,  stiertlcd  at  first,  stands 
firmly,  as  if  prepared  to  interpose  between  her  fiither  and  the  Duler.) 

Z.\TW\. 

Ay,  'tis  a  sword 
Tiiat  parts  the  Spaniard  and  the  Zincala: 
A  sword  that  was  baptized  in  Christian  bhiod, 
When  once  a  band,  cloaking  with  Spanish  law 
Their  brutal  rapine,  would  have  butchered  us, 
And  outraged  Wien  our  women. 

(Resting  the  point  of  his  sword  on  tlie  ground.) 

My  lord  Duke, 
I  was  a  guest  within  your  fortress  once 
Against  my  will;  had  entertainment  too — 
Much  like  a  galley-slave's.    Pray,  have  you  sought 
The  ZiHcalo's  camp,  to  find  a  fit  return 
For  that  C;istilian  courtesy?  or  rather 
To  make  amends  for  all  our  prisoned  toil 
By  free  bestowal  of  your  preseace  here? 

Don  Silva. 

Chief,  I  have  brought  no  scorn  to  meet  your  scorn. 
I  came  because  love  urged  me— that  deep  love 
I  bear  to  her  whom  you  call  daughter— her 
Whom  I  reclaim  as  my  betrothed  bride. 

Zaeoa. 

Doubtless  you  bring  for  linal  arguincut 

Your  meu-at-arms  who  will  escort  your  bride? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  219 


Don  Sii-ya. 

I  cnme  almie.    The  only  force  I  l)riiig 
Is  teiideniess.    Nay,  I  will  trust  besides 
lu  all  the  pleadings  of  a  fathei-'a  care 
To  wed  his  daughter  as  her  uiirture  bids. 
And  for  your  iribe — whatever  purposed  good 
Tour  thoughts  may  cherish,  I  will  make  secure 
With  the  strong  surety  of  a  noble's  power: 
My  wealth  shall  be  your  treasury. 

Zaroa  {with  irony). 

My  thanks  I 
To  me  you  otTcr  liberal  price  ;  for  her 
Yonr  love's  beseeching  will  be  force  supreme. 
She  will  go  with  you  as  a  willing  slave, 
Will  give  a  word  of  parting  to  her  father, 
Wave  farewells  to  her  tribe,  then  turn  and  say, 
"Now,  my  lord,  I  am  nothing  but  yonr  bride; 
I  am  quite  culled,  have  neither  root  nor  trunk, 
Now  wear  me  with  your  plume !" 

Don  Sii.va. 

Yours  is  the  wrong 
Feigning  in  me  one  thought  of  her  below 
The  highest  homage.    I  would  make  my  rank 
The  pedestal  of  her  worth  ;  a  noble's  sword, 
A  noble's  honor,  her  defence  ;  his  love 
The  life-long  sanctuary  of  her  womanhood. 

Zakca. 

I  tell  you,  were  you  King  of  Aragon, 

And  won  my  daughter's  hand,  your  liigher  rank 

Would  blacken  her  dishonor.     'Twere  excuse 

If  you  were  beggared,  homeless,  spit  upon, 

And  so  made  even  with  her  people's  lot; 

For  then  she  would  be  lured  by  want,  not  wealth, 

To  be  a  wife  amongst  an  alien  race 

To  whom  her  tribe  owes  curses. 

Don  Silva. 

Such  blind  hate 
Is  fit  for  beasts  of  prey,  but  not  for  men. 
My  hostile  acts  against  you,  should  but  count 
As  ignorant  strokes  against  a  friend  unknown; 
And  for  the  wrongs  inflicted  on  your  tribe 
By  Spanish  edicts  or  the  cruelty 
Of  Spanish  vassals,  am  I  criminal? 
Love  comes  to  cancel  all  ancestral  hate. 
Subdues  all  heritage,  proves  that  in  mankind 
Uuin  is  deeper  than  division. 

Zaeca. 

Ay, 
Such  love  is  common:  I  have  seen  it  oft — 
Seen  many  women  rend  the  sacred  ties 
That  bind  them  in  high  fellowship  with  men, 


830  THE  SPANISH   C.YPSY, 

Making  thcni  mothers  of  a  people's  virlne: 

Seen  them  so  levelled  to  a  haiulsoinc  steed 

That  yesterday  was  Moorish  property, 

To-day  is  Christian— \vears  uew-fashioned  pear. 

Neighs  to  new  feeders,  and  will  prauce  alilie 

Under  all  banners,  so  the  banner  be 

A  master's  who  caresses.     Snch  light  change 

You  call  conversion  ;  but  we  Zincali  call 

Conversion  infamy.     Our  people's  faith 

Is  faithfulness;  not  the  rote-learned  belief 

That  we  are  heaven's  highest  favorites, 

liut  the  resolve  tliat  being  most  forsaken 

Among  the  sons  of  men,  we  will  be  true 

Each  to  the  other,  and  our  common  lot. 

You  Christians  burn  men  for  their  heresy: 

Our  vilest  heretic  is  that  Zincala 

Who,  choosing  ease,  forsakes  her  people's  woes 

The  dowry  of  my  daughter  is  to  be 

Chief  woman  of  her  tribe,  and  rescue  it. 

A  bride  with  snch  a  dowry  has  no  match 

Among  the  subjects  of  that  Catholic  Queen 

Who  would  have  Gypsies  swept  into  the  sea 

Or  else  would  have  them  gibbeted. 

Don  SiLVA. 

And  yon, 
Fedalma's  father— you  who  claim  the  dues 
Of  fatherhood— will  offer  u|)  her  youth 
To  mere  grim  idols  of  your  phantasy  1 
Worse  than  all  Pagans,  with  no  oracle 
To  bid  you  murder,  no  sure  good  to  win. 
Will  sacrifice  your  daughter— to  uo  god,     . 
But  to  a  ravenous  tire  within  your  soul, 
Mad  hopes,  blind  hate,  that  like  possessing  fiends 
Shriek  at  a  naiue !    This  sweetest  virgin,  reared 
As  garden  flowers,  to  give  the  sordid  world 
Glimpses  of  perfectness,  you  snatch  and  thrust 
On  dreary  wilds  ;  in  visions  mad,  proclaim 
Semiramis  of  Gypsy  wanderers  ; 
Doom,  with  a  broken  arrow  in  her  heart. 
To  wait  for  death  'mid  squalid  savages: 
For  what?    Yon  would  be  saviour  of  your  tribe; 
So  said  Fedalma's  letter;  rather  say, 
You  have  the  will  to  save  by  ruling  men. 
But  first  to  rule;  ai!d  with  tliat  flinty  will 
You  cut  your  way,  though  the  first  cut  you  give 
Gash  your  child's  bosom. 
{Willie  Don  Sii.va  hati  been  speaking,  with  growing  pasHion,  Febai.ma  Tias 
placed  herself  hetimen  him  and  her  father.) 

Zakoa  (with  calm  irony). 

You  are  loud,  my  lord! 
You  only  are  the  reasonable  man  ; 
You  have  a  heart,  I  uone.    Fedalma's  good 
Is  what  you  see,  you  care  for;  while  I  seek 
No  good,  not  even  my  own,  urged  on  by  nought 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  221 

But  hellish  hunger,  which  must  still  be  fed 

Though  ill  the  feeding  it  I  suffer  throes. 

Fume  iit  your  own  opinion  ;is  you  will : 

I  speak  not  now  to  you,  but  to  my  daughter. 

If  she  still  calls  it  good  to  mate  with  you, 

To  be  a  Spanish  duchess,  kneel  at  court, 

And  hope  her  beauty  is  excuse  to  men 

When  women  whisper,  "A  mere  Zincahi  1" 

If  she  still  calls  it  good  to  take  a  lot 

That  measures  joy  for  her  as  she  forgets 

Her  kindred  and  her  kindred's  misery, 

Kor  feels  the  softness  of  her  downy  conch 

Marred  by  remembrance  that  she  once  forsook 

The  place  that  she  was  born  to— let  her  go  I 

If  life  for  her  still  lies  in  alien  love. 

That  forces  her  to  shut  her  soul  from  truth 

As  men  iu  shameful  pleasures  shut  out  day; 

And  death,  for  her,  is  to  do  rarest  deeds. 

Which,  even  failing,  leave  new  faith  to  men, 

The  faith  iu  human  hearts — then,  let  her  go! 

She  is  my  only  offspring;  in  her  veins 

She  bears  the  blood  her  tribe  has  trusted  in; 

Her  herilage  is  their  obedience. 

And  if  I  died,  she  might  still  lead  them  forth 

To  plant  the  race  her  lover  now  reviles 

Where  they  may  make  a  nation,  and  may  rise 

To  grander  manhood  than  his  race  can  show; 

1'hen  live  a  goddess,  sanctifying  oaths. 

Enforcing  right,  and  ruling  consciences. 

By  law  deep-graven  in  exalting  deeds. 

Through  the  long  ages  of  her  people's  life. 

If  she  can  leave  that  lot  for  silken  shame. 

For  kisses  honeyed  by  oblivion — 

Tlie  bliss  of  drunkards  or  the  blank  of  fools — 

Then  let  her  go !    You  Spanish  Catholics, 

When  you  are  cruel,  base,  and  treacherous. 

For  ends  not  pious,  tender  gifts  to  God, 

And  for  men's  wounds  offer  much  oil  to  churches: 

We  have  no  altars  for  such  healing  gifts 

As  soothe  the  heavens  for  outrage  done  on  earth. 

We  have  no  priesthood  and  no  creed  to  teach 

That  she — the  Ziucala— who  might  save  her  race 

And  yet  abandons  it,  may  cleanse  that  blot, 

And  mend  the  curse  her  life  has  been  to  men, 

By  saving  her  own  soul.     Iler  one  base  choice 

Is  wrong  unchangeable,  is  poison  shed 

Where  men  must  drink,  shed  l)y  her  poisoning  will. 

Now  choose,  Fedalma ! 

[But  her  choice  was  made. 
Slowl}',  while  yet  her  father  spoke,  she  moved 
From  where  oblique  with  deprecatin£»  arms 
She  stood  between  the  two  who  swayed  her  heart: 
Slowly  she  moved  to  choose  sublimer  pain; 
Yearning,  yet  shrinking;  wrought  upon  by  awe, 
Her  own  brief  life  seeming  a  little  isle 
Remote  through  visions  of  a  wider  world 


223  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

With  fates  close-et-owdcd ;  firm  to  slay  her  jny 
Tliat  cut  her  lieart  with  smiles  beneath  tlie  kiiilc, 
Like  a  sweet  babe  foieclooiiu'd  by  prophecy. 
She  stood  apart,  yet  near  her  father:  stood 
Hand  chitching  hand,  lier  linibH  all  tense  with  will 
Q'hat  strove  'j^ainst  anf^tii.sh,  eyes  that  seemed  a  soul 
Yearning  in  death  toward.s  liim  she  loved  and  left. 
He  faced  her,  pale  with  passion  and  a  will 
Fierce  to  resist  whatever  miijht  seem  strong 
And  ask  him  to  submit:  he  saw  one  end- 
He  must  be  conqueror ;  monarch  of  his  lot 
And  not  its  ti-ibniary.    But  she  spoke 
Tenderly,  pleadingly.] 

Fkdalma. 

My  lord,  farewell ! 
'Twas  well  wc  met  once  more;  now  we  must  part. 
I  think  we  had  the  chief  of  all  love's  joys 
Only  in  knowing  that  we  loved  each  other. 

Don  Sii.va. 

I  thought  we  loved  with  love  that  clings  till  death, 
Clings  as  brute  mothers,  bleeding,  to  their  young, 
Still  sheltering,  clutching  it,  though  it  were  dead ; 
Taking  the  dcath-wonud  sooner  thau  divide. 
I  thought  we  loved  so. 

Fedalma. 

Silva,  it  is  fate. 
Great  Fate  has  made  me  heiress  of  this  woe. 
You  must  forgive  Fedalma  all  her  debt : 
She  is  quite  beggared  :  if  she  gave  herself, 
'Twould  be  a  self  corrupt  with  stifled  thoughts 
Of  a  fiu-sakeu  better.     It  is  truth 
My  father  speaks:  the  Spanish  uolde's  wife 
Were  a  false  Ziucala.    No !  I  will  bear 
The  heavy  trust  of  my  inheritance. 
See,  'twas  my  people's  life  that  throbbed  in  me: 
An  unknown  need  stirred  darkly  iu  my  soul, 
Aud  made  me  restless  even  iu  my  bliss. 
Oh,  all  ray  bliss  was  iu  our  love;  but  now 
I  may  not  taste  it:  some  deep  energy 
Compels  me  to  choose  hunger.    Dear,  farewell  1 
I  must  go  with  my  people. 

[She  stretched  forth 
Her  tender  hands,  that  oft  had  lain  in  his, 
The  hands  he  knew  so  well,  that  sight  of  them 
Seen>ed  like  their  touch.     But  he  stood  still  as  death; 
Locked  rrwtionless  by  forces  opposite: 
His  frustrate  hopes  still  battled  with  despair; 
His  will  was  prisoner  to  the  double  grasp 
Of  rage  and  hesitancy.     All  the  way 
Behind  him  he  had  trodden  confident, 
Ruling  muniflceutly  in  his  thought 
This  Gypsy  fatlier.    Now  the  father  stood 
Present  and  silent  aud  nuchaugeable 


THE   SPANISH  GYPSY.  238 

As  a  celestial  portent.    Backward  lay 

The  traversed  road,  tlie  town's  forsaken  wall, 

The  rifk,  the  daring;  all  around  bini  now 

Was  obstacle,  save  where  the  rising  flood 

Of  love  close  pressed  by  anguish  of  denial 

Was  sweeping  him  resistless;  save  where  she, 

Gazing,  stretched  forth  her  tender  hands,  that,  hurt 

Like  parting  kisses.    Then  «t  last  he  spoke.] 

Don  Silva. 

No,  I  can  never  tnke  those  hands  in  mine 
Then  let  thenr  go  forever! 

Fedalma. 

It  must  be. 
We  may  not  make  this  world  a  paradise 
Ey  walking  it  together  hand  in  hand. 
With  eyes  that  meeting  feed  a  donble  strength. 
We  must  be  only  joined  by  i)ains  divine 
Of  spirits  blent  in  nmlual  memories. 
Silva,  our  joy  is  dead. 

Don  Silva. 

But  love  still  live.'', 
And  has  a  safer  guard  in  wretchedness. 
Fedalma,  women  know  no  perfect  love: 
Loving  the  strong,  they  can  fen-sake  the  strong; 
Man  clings  becaivse  the  being  whom  he  loves 
Is  weak  and  needs  him.     I  can  never  Unn 
And  leave  you  to  your  difiicnlt  wandoj-ing; 
Know  that  you  tread  the  desert,  bear  the  storm, 
Shed  tears,  see  terrors,  faint  with  weariness. 
Yet  live  away  from  you.     1  shgnld  feel  nought 
But  your  imagined  pains  :  in  my  own  steps 
See  your  feet  bleeding,  taste  your  silent  tears. 
And  feel  no  presence  but  your  loneliness. 
No,  I  will  never  leave  yon ! 

Zat.oa. 

]My  lord  Dnke, 
I  have  been  patient,  given  room  for  speech. 
Bent  not  to  move  my  daughter  by  command, 
Save  that  of  her  own  faithfulness.    But  now, 
All  further  words  are  idle  elegies 
Unfitting  times  of  action.     You  are  here 
With  the  safe-couduct  of  that  trust  yon  showed 
Coming  unguarded  to  the  Gypsy's  camp. 
I  would  fain  meet  all  trust  with  courtesy 
As  well  as  honor;  but  my  utmost  power 
Is  to  afford  you  Gypsy  guard  to-night 
Within  the  tents  that  keep  ihe  northward  lines. 
And  for  the  morrow,  escort  on  your  way 
Back  to  the  Moorish  bounds. 

Don  Silva. 

What  if  my  words 
Were  meant  fbr  deeds,  decisive  as  a  leap 


234  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

Into  the  cun-ciit?    It  is  iii)t  my  wont 
To  utter  hollow  words,  :uul  speak  resolves 
Like  verses  bandiod  in  a  inadri;:al. 
1  spoke  in  action  first:  I  faced  all  risks 
To  find  Fedalnin.    Action  speaks  again 
When  I,  a  Spanish  noble,  here  declare 
That  I  abide  with  her,  adopt  her  lot, 
Claiminj^  alone  I'ullilnient  of  her  vows 
As  my  betrothed  wife. 

Vi;i)Ai.MA  (ivrcsiing  herself fro7H  him,  and  standing  ojipositeioith  a  look  of  terror). 

Nay,  Silva,  nay ! 
You  could  not  live  so— spring  from  your  high  phice  .  .  . 

Don  Sii.VA. 

Yes,  I  have  said  it.    And  you,  cliief,  are  bound 
By  her  strict  vows,  no  stronger  fealty 
Being  left  to  cancel  them. 

Zaroa. 

Strong  words,  my  lord! 
Sounds  fatal  as  the  hammer-strokes  that  shape 
The  glowing  metal:  they  must  shape  your  life. 
That  you  will  claim  my  daughter  is  to  say 
That  you  will  leave  your  Spanish  dignities. 
Your  home,  your  wealth,  your  people,  to  become 
Wholly  a  Zincalo:  share  our  wanderings, 
And  l)e  a  match  meet  for  my  daughter's  dower 
By  living  for  her  tribe;  take  the  deep  oath 
That  binds  you  to  us  ;  rest  within  our  camp. 
Never  more  hold  command  of  Spanish  men, 
And  keep  my  orders.     Sec,  my  lord,  you  lock 
A  many-vviudiug  chain— a  heavy  chain. 

Don  StLVA. 

I  have  but  one  resolve:  let  the  rest  follow. 

What  is  my  rank?    To-morrow  it  will  be  tilled 

By  one  who  eyes  it  like  a  carriou  bird. 

Waiting  for  death.    I  shall  be  no  more  missed 

Thau  waves  are  missed  that,  leaping  on  the  rock, 

Find  there  a  bed  and  rest.    Life's  a  vast  sea 

That  does  its  mighty  errand  without  fail. 

Panting  in  unchanged  strength  though  waves  are  changing. 

And  I  have  said  it:  she  shall  be  my  people, 

And  where  she  gives  her  life  I  will  give  mine. 

She  shall  not  live  alone,  nor  die  a.l.one. 

I  will  elect  my  deeds,  and  be  the  liege 

Not  of  my  birth,  but  of  tliat  good  alone 

I  have  discerned  and  chosen. 

Zarca. 

Our  poor  faith 
Allows  not  rightful  choice,  save  of  the  right 
Our  birth  lias  made  for  us.    And  you,  my  lord, 
Can  still  defer  your  choice,  for  some  days'  space. 
I  march  perforce  to-night;  you,  if  you  will. 
Under  a  Gypsy  guard,  cau  keep  the  heights 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  225 

With  silent  Time  tliat  slowly  opes  the  scroll 
Of  change  inevitahle— take  no  oath 
Till  my  accomplished  task  leave  me  at  large 
To  see  you  keep  your  purpose  or  renounce  it. 

Don  Silva. 

Chief,  do  I  hear  amiss,  or  does  your  speech 
Ring  with  a  doubleness  which  I  had  held 
Most  alien  to  you  ?    You  would  put  me  olT, 
And  cloak  evasion  with  allowance  ?    No  I 
We  will  complete  our  pledges.    I  will  take 
That  oath  which  binds  not  me  alone,  but  ypu. 
To  join  my  life  forever  with  Fedalma's. 

Zaroa. 

I  wrangle  not— time  presses.    But  the  oath 
Will  leave  you  that  same  post  upon  the  heights; 
Pledged  to  remain  there  while  my  absence  lasts. 
You  are  agreed,  my  lord  ? 

Don  Sii.va. 

Agreed"  to  all. 
Zakoa. 

Then  I  will  give  the  summons  to  our  camp. 
We  will  adopt  you  as  a  brother  now, 
After  our  wouted  fashion. 

[Exit  Zaroa. 
(Sii.va  takes  Fedat.ma's  hands.) 

Fedat.ma. 

O  my  lord ! 
I  think  the  earth  is  trembling:  nought  is  firm. 
Some  terror  chills  me  with  a  shadowy  grasp. 
Am  I  about  to  wake,  or  do  you  breathe 
Here  in  this  valley?     Did  the  outer  air 
Vibrate  to  fatal  words,  or  did  they  shake 
Only  my  dreaming  foul?    You— join — our  tribe? 

Don  Sii.va. 

Is  then  your  love  too  faint  to  raise  belief 
Up  to  that  height? 

Fedalma. 

Silva,  had  you  but  said 
That  you  would  die — that  were  an  easy  task 
For  you  who  oft  have  fronted  death  in  war. 
But  so  to  live  for  me — you,  used  to  rule — 
You  could  not  breathe  the  air  my  father  breathes: 
His  presence  is  sul)jection.     Go,  iny  lord  ! 
Fly,  while  there  yet  is  time.     Wait  not  to  speak. 
I  will  declare  that  I  refused  your  love — 
Would  keep  uo  vows  to  you.  .  .  . 

Don  Sii.va. 

It  is  too  late. 
You  shall  not  thrust  mo  back  to  seek  a  good 
Apart  from  you.    And  what  good  ?    Why,  to  face 


226  THE  SPANISH  GYTSY. 

Your  absoncc— ;ill  the  want  that  drove  mc  forth— 

To  work  the  will  of  a  more  tyi-aniions  IVieiid 

Than  any  nncowled  father.    Life  at  least 

(Jives  choice  of  ills;  forces  me  to  defy, 

Iiiit  shall  not  force  mc  to  a  weak  deiiancc. 

The  power  that  threatened  yoti,  to  master  me, 

That  scorches  like  a  cave-hid  dragon's  brcalh. 

Sure  of  its  victory  in  spite  of  hate, 

Is  what  I  last  will  bend  to — most  defy. 

Your  father  has  a  chieftain's  ends,  befitting 

A  soldier's  eye  and  arm:  were  be  as  strong 

As  the  Moors'  prophet,  yet  the  prophet  too 

Had  younger  captains  of  illustrious  fame 

Among  the  infidels.     Let  him  coniuiand, 

For  when  your  father  speaks,  I  shall  hear  you. 

Life  were  no  gain  if  you  were  lost  to  me: 

I  would  straight  go  and  seek  the  Moorish  walls, 

Challenge  their  bravest,  and  embrace  swift  death. 

The  Glorious  Mother  and  her  pitying  Son 

Are  not  Inquisitors,  else  their  heaven  were  hell. 

Perhaps  they  hate  their  cruel  worshippers, 

And  let  them  feed  on  lies.    I'll  rather  trust 

They  love  you  nud  have  sent  me  to  defend  you. 

Fedai.ma. 

I  made  my  creed  so,  just  to  suit  my  mood 
And  smooth  all  hardship,  till  my  father  came 
Aud  taught  my  soul  by  ruling  it.    Since  tlien 
I  cannot  weave  a  dreaming  happy  creed 
Where  our  love's  happiness  is  uot  accursed. 
My  father  shook  ray  soul  awake.    And  you — 
The  bonds  Fedalma  may  not  break  for  you, 
I  caunot  joy  that  you  should  break  for  lier. 

Don  Silva. 

Oh,  Spanish  men  are  not  a  petty  band 
Where  one  deserter  makes  a  fatal  breach. 
Men,  even  nobles,  are  more  plenteous 
Thau  steeds  aud  armor  ;  and  my  weapons  left 
Will  find  new  hands  to  wield  them.    Arrogance 
Makes  itself  champion  of  mankind,  and  holds 
God's  purpose  maimed  for  one  hidalgo  lost. 

See  where  your  father  comes  aud  brings  a  crowd 
Of  witnesses  to  hear  my  oath  of  love ; 
The  low  red  sun  glows  on  them  like  a  fire. 
This  seems  a  valley  in  some  strange  new  world, 
Where  we  have  found  each  other,  my  Fedalma. 


BOOK   IV. 

Now  twice  the  day  had  sunlc  from  off  the  hills 
Wliile  Silva  kept  his  watch  there,  with  the  band 
Of  stalwart  Gypsies.    Wlieu  the  sun  was  higb 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY,  227 

He  slept;  then,  waking,  strained  impatient  eyes 

To  catcli  tlie  promise  of  some  moving  form 

That  miglit  be  Juan — Juan  wlio  went  and  came 

To  pootlie  two  hearts,  and  claimed  nought  for  his  ov.'n : 

Friend  more  divine  than  all  divinities, 

Quenching  his  human  thirst  in  others'  joy. 

All  through  the  lingering  nights  and  pale  chill  dawns 

Juan  had  hoverejl  near;  with  delicate  sense, 

As  of  some  breath  from  every  changing  mood, 

Had  spoken  or  kept  silence :  touched  his  lute 

To  liint  of  melody,  or  poured  brief  strains 

That  seemed  to  make  all  sorrows  natural. 

Hardly  worth  weeping  for,  since  life  was  short, 

And  shared  by  loving  souls.     Such  pity  welled 

Within  tlie  minstrel's  heart  of  light-tongued  Jnan 

For  this  doomed  man,  who  with  dream-shrouded  eyes 

Had  stepped  into  a  torrent  as  a  brook, 

Thinking  to  ford  it  and  return  at  will. 

And  now  waked  helpless  in  the  eddying  flood, 

Hemmed  by  its  raging  hurry.    Once  that  thought,' 

How  easy  wandering  is,  how  hard  and  Sktrict 

The  homeward  way,  had  slipped  from  reverie 

Into  low-murmured  song; — (brief  Spanish  song 

'Scaped  him  as  sighs  escape  from  other  men). 

Push  off  the  boat. 
Quit,  quit  the  shore. 

The  stars  idUI  guide  vs  back : — 
0  gathei'ing  cloud, 
O  wide,  wide  sea, 

0  loaves  thai  keep  no  track  ! 

On  througli  the  pines  ! 
The  pillared  woods, 

Where  silence  breathes  siccet  breath: — 
O  labyrinth, 

O  sunless  gloom. 

The  other  side  of  death  ! 

Such  plaintive  song  had  seemed  to  please  the  Duke — 

Had  seemed  to  melt  all  voices  of  reproach 

To  sympathetic  sadness ;  but  his  moods 

Had  grown  moje  fitful  with  the  growing  hours, 

And  this  soft  murmur  had  the  iterant  voice 

Of  heartless  Eclio,  whom  no  pain  can  move 

To  say  aught  else  than  we  have  said  to  her. 

He  spoke,  impatient :  "Juan,  cease  thy  song. 

Our  whimpering  poesy  and  small-paced  tunes 

Have  no  more  utterance  than  the  cricket's  chirp 

For  souls  that  carry  heaven  and  hell  within." 

Then  Juan,  lightly:  "True,  my  lord,  I  chirp 

For  lack  of  soul  ;  some  hungry  poets  chirp 

For  lack  of  bread.     'Twere  wiser  to  sit  down 

And  count  the  star-seed,  till  I  fell  asleej) 

With  the  cheap  wine  of  pure  stupidity." 

And  Silva,  checked  by  courtesy ;  "  Nay,  Juan. 

Were  sireech  once  good,  thy  song  were  best  of  speech. 

I  meant,  all  life  is  but  poor  mockery: 


228  THE  SPAKISn  GYPSY. 

Action,  place,  power,  the  visil)le  wide  world 

Arc  tattered  inasqucindin;,'  of  this  self, 

This  pulse  of  cons^cioiis  mystery :  all  change, 

Whether  to  high  or  low,  is  change  of  rags. 

But  for  her  love,  I  would  noi  take  ii  good  . 

Save  to  burn  out  in  hat  lie,  in  a  (lame 

Of  madness  that  would  feci  no  mangled  limhp. 

And  die  not  knowing  death,  but  passing  straight 

—Well,  well,  to  other  llamcs— in  purgatory." 

Keen  Juan's  car  cauglit  the  self-discontent 

That  vibrated  beneath  tlic  changing  tones 

Of  life-contcmniug  scorn.    Gently  he  said: 

"  But  ivith  her  love,  my  lortl,  the  world  descives 

A  higher  rate  ;  were  it  but  masquerade. 

The  rags  were  surely  worih  the  wearing?"    "Yes. 

No  misery  shall  force  me  to  repent 

That  I  have  loved  her." 

So  with  wilful  talk, 
Fencing  the  wounded  soul  from  beating  winds 
Of  truth  that  came  unasked,  companionshi') 
Made  the  hours  lighter.     And  the  Gypsy  guard, 
Trusting  familiar  Juan,  were  content, 
At  friendly  hint  from  him,  to  still  their  songs 
And  busy  jargon  round  the  nightly  fires. 
Such  sounds,  the  quiclv-conceiving  poet  knew 
Would  strike  on  Silva's  agitated  soul 
Like  mocking  repetition  of  the  oath 
Ttiat  bouud  him  in  strange  clanship  with  the  tribe 
Of  human  panthers,  ttame-eyed,  lithe-limbed,  tierce, 
Unrccking  of  time-woven  subtleties 
And  liigh  tribunals  of  a  phantom-world. 

But  the  third  day,  though  Silva  southward  gazed 

Till  all  the  shadows  slanted  towards  him,  gazed 

Till  all  the  shadows  died,  no  Juan  came. 

Now  in  his  stead  came  loneliness,  and  Thought 

Inexorable,  fastening  with  firm  chain 

What  is  to  what  hath  been.    Now  awful  Night, 

The  prime  ancestral  mystery,  came  down 

Past  all  the  generations  of  the  stars. 

And  visited  his  soul  with  touch  more  close 

Than  when  he  kept  that  younger,  briefer  watch 

Under  the  church's  roof  beside  his  arms, 

Aud  wou  his  knighthood. 

Well,  this  solitude. 
This  company  with  tlie  enduring  universe. 
Whose  mighty  silence  carrying  all  the  past 
Absorbs  our  history  as  with  a  breath. 
Should  give  him  more  assurance,  make  him  strong 
In  all  contempt  of  that  poor  circumstance 
Called  human  life— customs  and  bonds  and  laws 
Wherewith  men  make  a  better  or  a  worse. 
Like  children  playing  on  a  barren  mound 
Feigning  a  thing  to  strive  for  or  avoid. 
Thus  Silva  argued  with  his  many-voiced  self. 
Whose  thwarted  needs,  like  angry  muliitudes, 
Lured  from  the  home  that  nurtured  them  to  strength, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  229 

Made  loud  insnrgence.    Thus  lie  called  on  Thon,L;ht, 

On  (Icxtei-oiis  Thought,  with  its  swift  nlcheray 

To  change  all  forms,  dissolve  all  prejudice 

Of  man's  long  heritage,  and  yield  him  up 

A  crude  fused  world  to  fashion  as  he  would. 

Thought  played  him  double;  seemed  to  wear  the  yoke 

Of  sovereign  passion  iu  the  noon-day  height 

Of  passion's  prevalence ;  but  served  anon 

As  tribune  to  the  larger  soul  which  brought 

Loud-mingled  cries  from  every  human  need 

That  ages  had  instructed  into  life. 

lie  could  not  grasp  Night's  black  blank  mystery 

And  wear  it  for  a  spiritual  garb 

Creed-proof;  he  shuddered  at  its  passionless  touch. 

On  solitary  souls,  the  universe 

Looks  down  inhospitable;  the  hnman  heart 

Finds  nowhere  shelter  but  in  human  kind. 

He  yearned  towards  images  that  had  breath  iu  them, 

That  sprang  warm  palpitant  with  memories 

From  streets  and  altars,  from  ancestral  homes 

Bannci-s  and  trophies  and  the  cherishing  rays 

Of  shame  and  honor  in  the  eyes  of  man. 

These  made  the  speech  articulate  of  his  soul, 

That  could  not  move  to  utterance  of  scoru 

Save  in  words  bred  by  fellowship  ;  could  not  feel 

Kesolve  of  hardest  constancy  to  love 

The  firmer  for  the  sorrows  of  the  loved. 

Save  by  concurrent  energies  high-wrought 

To  sensibilities  transcending  sense 

Through  close  community,  and  long-shared  pains 

Of  far-off  generations.    All  iu  vain 

He  sought  the  outlaw's  strength,  and  made  a  right 

Contemning  that  hereditary  right 

"Which  held  dim  habitations  in  his  frame, 

Mysterious  haunts  of  echoes  old  and  far, 

The  voice  divine  of  human  loyalty. 

At  home,  among  his  people,  he  had  played 

In  sceptic  ease  with  saints  and  litanies, 

And  thunders  of  the  Church  that  deadened  fell 

Through  screens  of  priests  plethoric.    Awe,  unscathed 

By  deeper  trespass,  slept  without  a  dream. 

But  for  such  trespass  as  made  outcasts,  still 

The  ancient  Furies  lived  with  faces  new 

And  lurked  with  lighter  slumber  than  of  old 

O'er  Catholic  Spain,  the  land  of  sacred  oaths 

That  might  be  broken. 

Now  the  former  life 

Of  close-linked  fellowship,  the  life  that  made 
His  full-formed  self,  as  the  impregnate  sap 
Of  years  successive  frames  the  full-branched  tree- 
Was  present  iu  one  whole;  and  that  great  trust 
His  deed  had  broken  turned  reproach  on  him 
From  faces  of  all  witnesses  who  heard 
His  uttered  pledges;  saw  him  hold  high  place 
Centring  reliance  ;  use  rich  privilege 
That  bound  him  like  a  victim-nourished  god 
By  tacit  covenant  to  shield  and  ble.'s ; 


280  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

Assume  the  Cross  and  take  his  kiiij^htly  oath 
Mature,  deliberate:  faces  human  all, 
And  some  divine  as  well  as  human:  His 
Wlio  hung  supreme,  the  sulTerlnj,'  Man  divine 
Above  the  jillar;  Hers,  the  IMother  pure 
Whose  gl'i'ice  informed  liis  masculine  tenderness 
With  deepest  reveience ;  the  ArchanKe!  armed, 
Trampling  man's  enemy:  all  heroic  forms 
That  till  the  world  of  faith  with  voices,  heails, 
And  high  companionship,  to  Silva  now 
Wade  but  one  inward  and  insistent  world 
Willi  faces  of  his  peers,  with  court  and  hall 
And  deference,  and  reverent  vassalage, 
And  lilial  pieties— one  current  strong. 
The  warmly  mingled  life-blood  of  his  mind, 
Sustaining  him  even  when  he  idly  played 
With  rules,  beliefs,  charges,  and  ceremouies 
As  arbitrary  fooling.    Such  revenge 
Is  wrought  by  the  long  travail  of  mankind' 
On  him  who  scorns  it>  and  Would  shape  his  life 
Without  obedience. 

But  his  warrior's  pride 
Would  take  no  wounds  save  on  the  breast.    lie  faced 
The  fatal  crowd:  "I  never  shall  repent! 
If  I  have  sinned,  my  sin  was  made  for  me 
By  men's  perverseness.    There's  no  blameless  life 
Save  for  the  passionless,  no  sanctities 
But  have  the  self-same  roof  and  props  with  crime. 
Or  have  their  roots  close  interlaced  with  wrong. 
If  I  had  loved  her  less,  been  more  a  craven, 
I  had  kept  my  place  and  won  the  easy  praise 
Of  a  true  Spanish  noble.     But  I  loved. 
And,  loving,  dared— not  Death  the  warrior 
But  Infamy  that  binds  and  strips,  and  holds 
The  brand  and  lash.     I  have  dared  all  for  her. 
She  was  my  good— what  other  men  call  heaven, 
And  for  the  sake  of  it  bear  penances; 
Nm)',  some  of  old  were  bailed,  tortured,  flayed 
To  win  their  heaven.    Heaven  was  their  good, 
She,  mine.     And  I  have  braved  for  her  all  tires 
Certain  or  threatened  ;  for  I  go  away 
Beyond  the  reach  of  expiation — far  away 
From  sacramental  blessing.     Docs  God  bless 
No  outlaw?    Shut  his  absolution  fast 
In  human  breath?     Is  there  no  God  for  me 
Save  him  whose  cross  I  have  forsaken  ?— Well, 
I  am  forever  exiled — but  with  her! 
She  is  dragged  out  into  the  wilderness  ; 
I,  with  my  love,  will  be  her  providence. 
I  have  a  right  to  choose  my  good  or  ill, 
A  right  to  damn  myself  1    The  ill  is  mine. 
I  never  will  repent!"  .  .  . 
Thus  Silva,  inwardly  debating,  all  his  ear 
Turned  into  audience  of  a  twofold  mind ; 
For  even  in  tumult  full- fraught  consciousness 
Had  plenteous  being  for  a  self  aloof 
That  gazed  aud  listened,  like  a  soul  in  dreams 


THE  SPAKISH  GYPSY.  231 

Weaving  the  woiidrons  tale  it  marvels  at. 

But  lift  the  conflict  slackened,  oft  strong  Love 

With  tidal  energy  returning  l;iid 

All  other  restlessness:  Fedahua  came, 

And  with  her  visionary  presence  brought 

What  seemed  a  waking  in  the  warm  spring  morn. 

He  still  was  pacing  on  the  stony  earth 

Under  the  deepening  night;  the  fresh-lit  lircs 

Were  flickering  on  dark  forms  and  eyes  that  met 

His  forward  and  his  backward  tread ;  but  she, 

She  was  within  him,  making  his  whole  self 

Mere  correspondence  with  her  image:  sense, 

In  all  its  deep  recesses  where  it  keejjs 

The  mystic  stores  of  ecstasy,  was  turned 

To  memory  that  killed  the  hour,  like  wine. 

Then  Silva  said,  "She,  by  herself,  is  life. 

What  was  my  joy  before  I  loved  her — what 

Shall  heaven  lure  us  with,  love  being  lost?"'— 

For  he  was  young. 

But  now  around  the  tires 
The  Gypsy  band  felt  freer  ;  Juan's  song 
W'as  no  more  there,  nor  Juan's  friendly  ways 
For  links  of  amity  'twixt  their  wild  mood 
And  this  strange  brother,  this  pale  Spanish  dnke, 
Who  with  their  Gypsy  badge  upon  his  breast 
Took  readier  place  within  their  alien  hearts 
As  a  marked  captive,  v/ho  would  faiu  escape. 
And  Nadar,  who  commanded  them,  had  known 
The  prison  in  Bedmar.     So  now,  in  talk 
Foreign  to  Spanish  ears,  they  said  their  mind.^ 
Discussed  their  chief's  intent,  the  lot  marked  out 
Fog  this  new  brother.     Would  he  wed  their  qneen  ? 
And  some  denied,  saying  their  queen  w<)uld  wed 
Only  a  Gypsy  duke — one  who  would  join 
Their  bands  in  Telemsdn.     But  others  thought 
Young  Ilassau  was  to  wed  her;  said  their  chief 
Would  never  trust  this  nol)le  of  Caslile, 
Who  in  his  very  swearing  was  forsworn. 
And  then  one  fell  to  chanting,  in  wild  notes 
Recurrent  like  the  moan  of  ontshut  winds, 
The  adjuration  they  were  wont  to  use 
To  any  Spaniard  who  would  join  their  tribe: 
Words  of  plain  Spanish,  lately  stirred  anew 
And  ready  at  new  impulse.     Soon  the  rest. 
Drawn  to  the  stream  of  sound,  made  unison 
Higher  and  lower,  till  the  tidal  sweep 
Seemed  to  assail  the  Duke  and  close  him  round 
With  fiM'ce  diemonic.    All  debate  till  now 
Had  wrestled  with  the  nrgence  of  that  oath 
Already  broken ;  now  the  newer  oath 
Thrust  its  loud  presence  on  him.    He  stood  still, 
Close  baited  by  loud-barking  thoughts — fierce  hounds 
Of  that  Supreme,  the  irreversible  Past. 

The  ZtNCALi  sing. 
Brother,  hear  and  taka  the,  curse. 
Curse  of  soul's  and  body's  tliroes. 


232  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

Jf  you  hate  not  all  our  foes, 
Cling  not  fast  to  all  our  woes, 
Turn  /(line  Z'lncalo  ! 

May  you  he  accurvt 
By  hunger  and  liy  thirst 
Bij  npiked  pangs, 
Starvation's  fangs 
Clutching  you  alone 
When  none  hvt  j^eering  vultures  hear  your  moan. 
Curst  by  hurning  hands. 
Curst  by  aching  brow, 
Whe7i  on  sea-tviile  sands 

Fever  lays  you  low; 
By  the  maddened  brain 
When  the  running  neater  glistens, 
Arid  the  deaf  ear  listens,  listens. 
Prisoned  fire  within  the  vein. 
On  the  tongue  and  on  the  lip, 

Kot  a  sip 
From  the  earth  or  skies; 
Hot  the  desert  lies 
Pressed  into  your  anguish, 
Narrowing  earth  and  narroioing  sky 
Into  lonely  tnisery. 
Lonely  viay  you  languish 
Through  the  day  and  through  the  night. 
Hate  the  darkness,  hate  the  light, 
Pray  and  find  no  ear. 
Feel  no  brother  near. 
Till  on  death  you  cry, 

Death  wlio  2^ asses  by,  » 

And  anew  you  groan. 
Soaring  the  vultures  all  to  leave  you  living  lone: 
Curst  by  soul's  and  body's  throes 
Jf  you  love  the  darh  men's  foes, 
Cling  not  fast  to  all  the  dark  men's  ivoes. 
Turn  false  Z'mcalo  ! 
Swear  to  hate  the  cruel  cross, 

The  silver  cross  ! 
Glittering,  laughing  at  the  blood- 
Shed-  beloio  it  in  a  flood 
When  it  glitters  over  Aloorish  porches  ; 

Laughing  at  the  scent  of  flesh 
When  it  glitters  cohere  the  fagot  scorches. 
Burning  life's  mysterious  mesh; 
Blood  of  loandering  Israel, 
Blood  of  wandering  Ismail, 
Blood,  the  drink  of  Christian  scorn. 
Blood  of  wanderers,  sons  of  morn 
Where  the  life  of  men  began: 
Swear  to  hate  the  cross!— 
Sign  of  all  the  wanderers'  foes. 
Sign  of  all  the  wanderers'  troes — 

Else  its  curse  light  on-  you  ! 
Else  the  curse  upon  you  light 
Of  its  sharp,  red-sicorded  miglU. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  233 

May  it  lie  a  blood-reel  hlight 

On  (ill  things  mitkiii  your  sight: 

On  the  tvhite  haze  of  the  morn, 

On  the  ineadoivs  and  the  corn. 

On  the  sun  and  on  the  moon. 

On  the  clearness  of  the  7ioon, 

On  the  darkness  of  the  night. 

May  it  fill  your  aching  sight — 

Bed-cross  sword  and  sword  blood-red — 

Till  it  jiress  upon  your  head. 

Till  it  lie  within  your  brain, 

Pierci7ig  sharp,  a  cross  of  x)ain. 

Till  it  lie  upon  your  heart, 
Burning  hot,  a  c7'oss  of  fire. 

Till  from  sense  in  every  jjart 
Pains  have  clustered  like  a  stinging  swarm 

In  the  cross's  form. 
And  you  see  nought  but  the  cross  of  blood, 
And  you  feel  nought  but  the  cross  of  fire:  •    , 

Curst  by  all  the  cross's  throes 

If  you  hate  not  all  our  foes. 

Cling  not  fast  to  all  our  zcoes. 
Turn  false  Zincalo  ! 

A  fierce  delight  was  in  the  Gypsies'  chant ; 

They  thought  no  more  of  Silvn,  ouly  felt 

Lilie  those  broad-chested  rovers  of  the  night 

Who  pour  exuberant  strength  upon  the  air. 

To  him  it  seemed  as  if  the  hellish  rhythm, 

Revolving  in  long  curves  that  slackened  uov.'. 

Now  hurried,  sweeping  round  again  to  slackness, 

Would  cease  no  more.     What  use  to  raise  his  voice, 

Or  grasp  his  weapon  ?    He  was  powerless  now. 

With  these  new  comrades  of  his  future — he 

Who  had  been  wont  to  have  his  wi^^hcs  feared 

And  guessed  at  as  a  hidden  law  for  men. 

Even  the  passive  silence  of  the  night 

That  left  these  howlers  mast^ery,  even  the  mooc, 

Rising  and  staring  with  a  helpless  face 

Angered  him.    lie  was  ready  now  to  fly 

At  some  loud  throat,  and  give  the  signal  so 

For  butchery  of  himself. 

But  suddenly 
The  sounds  that  travelled  towards  no  foreseen  close 
Were  torn  right  off  and  fringed  into  the  night; 
Sharp  Gypsy  ears  had  caught  the  onward  strain 
Of  kindred  voices  joining  in  the  chant. 
All  started  to  their  feet  and  mustered  close. 
Auguring  long-waited  summons.    It  was  come: 
The  summons  to  set  forth  and  join  their  chief. 
Fedalma  had  been  called,  and  she  was  gone 
Under  safe  escort,  Juan  following  her: 
The  camp — the  women,  children,  and  old  meu — 
Were  moving  slowly  southward  on  the  way 
To  Almeria.    Silva  learned  no  more. 
lie  marched  jjerforce ;  what  other  goal  was  his 
Thau  where  Fedalnui  was?    And  so  he  marched 

25  ^ 


234  TUE  SPANISH  OYPSY. 

Through  the  dim  passes  and  o'er  rising  hills, 
Not  knowing  whither,  till  the  morning  came. 


The  Moorish  Jiall  in  the  castle  at  Bedviar,  The  morning  twilight  divihj  shmjis 
staiiut  of  bland  on  the  xchite  nnarhle  floor ;  yet  there  has  been  a  careful  restora- 
tion of  order  among  the  spare  objects  of  furniture.  Stretched  on  mats  lie  three 
cor2ises,  the  faces  bare,  the  bodies  covered  loiih  mantles.  A  little  way  off,  with 
rolled  matting  for  ajnllow,  lies  Zauoa,  slee])ing.  His  chest  and  arms  are  bare  ; 
his  loeapons,  turban,  mail-shirt,  and  other  upper  garments  lie  on  the  floor  beside 
him.  In  Uie  outer  gallery  Zincali  are  pacing,  at  intervals,  past  tlie  arched  open- 
ings. 

Zaboa  (half  rising  and  resting  his  elbow  on  the  pillow  lohile  he  looks  round). 

The  morning !  I  have  slept  for  full  three  hours ; 

Slept  without  dreams,  save  of  my  daughter's  face. 

Its  sadness  waked  me.    Soon  she  will  be  here, 

Soon  must  outlive  the  worst  of  all  the  pains 

Bred  by  false  nurture  in  an  alien  home — 

As  if  a  liou  in  fangless  infancy 

Learned  love  of  creatures  that  with  fatal  growth 

It  scents  as  natural  prey,  and  grasps  and  tears, 

Yet  with  heart-hunger  yearns  for,  missing  them. 

She  is  a  lioness.     And  they — the  race 

That  robbed  me  of  her — reared  her  to  this  pain. 

lie  will  be  crushed  and  torn.    There  was  no  bel|). 

But  she,  my  child,  will  bear  it.    For  strong  souls 

Live  like  fire-hearted  suns  to  spend  their  strengtl; 

In  farthest  striving  action  ;  breathe  more  free 

In  mighty  anguish  than  in  trivial  ease. 

Her  sad  face  waked  me.     I  shall  meet  it  soon 

Waking  .  .  . 

{He  rises  and  stands  looking  at  the  corpses.) 
As  now  I  look  on  these  pale  dead. 
These  blossoming  branches  crushed  beneath  the  fall 
Of  that  broad  trunk  to  which  I  laid  my  axe 
With  fullest  foresight,  so  will  I  ever  face 
In  thought  beforehand  to  its  utmost  reach 
The  consequences  of  my  conscious  deeds ; 
So  face  them  after,  bring  them  to  my  bed. 
And  never  drug  my  soul  to  sleep  with  lies. 
If  they  are  cruel,  they  shall  be  arraigned 
By  that  true  name  ;  they  shall  be  justified 
By  my  high  purpose,  by  the  clear-seen  good 
That  grew  into  my  vision  as  I  grew. 
And  makes  my  nature's  function,  the  full  pulse 
Of  inbred  kingship.    Catholics, 
Arabs,  and  Hebrews,  have  their  god  apiece 
To  fight  and  conquer  for  them,  or  be  bruised, 
Like  Allah  now,  yet  keep  avengiiig  stores 
Of  patient  wrath.    The  Zincali  have  no  god 
Who  speaks  to  them  and  calls  them  his,  unless 
I,  Zarca,  carry  living  in  my  frame 
The  power  divine  that  chooses  them  and  s.aves. 
"Life  and  more  life  unto  the  chosen,  death 
To  all  things  living  that  would  stifle  tliem  !" 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  235 

So  e^pcaks  each  god  that  makes  a  nation  sti-oiig; 
Bunia  trees  iukI  brutes  and  slays  all  hindering  men. 
The  Spaniards  boast  tlicir  god  the  strongest  now: 
They  win  most  towns  by  trcacliery,  make  most  slaves, 
Burn  the  most  vines  and  men,  and  rob  the  most. 
I  flght  against  that  strength,  and  in  my  turn 
Slay  these  brave  young  who  dnteously  strove. 
Cruel?  ay,  it  is  cruel.     But,  how  else? 
To  save,  we  Icill ;  each  blow  we  strike  at  guilt 
Hurts  innocence  with  its  shock.    Men  might  well  seek 
For  purifying  rites;  even  i)ious  deeds 
Need  washing.    But  my  cleansing  waters  flow 
Solely  from  my  intent. 
{lie  turns  away  from  the  bodies  to  where  his  garments  lie,  but  does  not  lift  them.) 

And  she  must  sufler  1 
But  she  has  seen  the  unchangeable  and  bowed 
Her  head  beneath  the  yoke.    And  she  will  walk 
No  more  in  chilling  twilight,  for  to-day 
Rises  our  sun.    The  diflicult  night  is  past; 
We  keep  the  bridge  uo  more,  but  cross  it ;  march 
Forth  to  a  land  where  all  our  wars  shall  be 
With  greedy  obstinate  plants  that  will  not  yield 
Fruit  for  their  nuiture.    All  our  race  shall  come 
From  north,  west,  east,  a  kindred  multitude, 
And  make  large  fellowship,  and  raised  inspired 
The  shout  divine,  the  unison  of  resolve. 
So  I,  so  she,  will  see  our  race  redeemed. 
And  Ihcir  Icecn  love  of  family  and  tribe 
Shall  no  more  thrive  on  cunning,  hide  and  lurk 
In  petty  arts  of  abject,  hunted  life, 
But  grow  heroic  in  the  sanctioning  light, 
And  feed  with  ardent  blood  a  nation's  heart 
That  is  my  work :  and  it  is  well  begun. 
On  to  achievement '. 
{He  takes  vp  the  mail-shirt,  and  looks  at  it,  then  throws  it  down  again.) 

No,  I'll  none  of  you ! 
To-day  there'll  be  uo  fighting.     A  few  hours, 
And  I  shall  doff  these  garments  of  the  Moor; 
Till  then  I  will  walk  lightly  and  breaihc  high. 
Sepuaei.o  (appearing  at  the  archway  leading  into  the  outer  gailctij). 
You  bade  me  waive  you.  .  .  . 

Zakoa. 

Welcome,  Doctor ;  see, 
With  that  small  task  I  did  but  beclvon  you 
To  graver  work.    You  know  these  corpses? 

SnruARDO. 

Yes. 

I  would  they  were  not  corpses.    Storms  will  lay 

The  fairest  trees  and  leave  the  withered  stumps. 

This  Alvar  and  the  Duke  were  of  one  age. 

And  very  loving  friends.    I  minded  not 

The  sight  of  Don  Diego's  corpse,  for  death 

Gave  him  some  genlleucss,  and  had  he  lived 

I  Lad  still  hated  him.    But  this  young  Alvar 


236  THE  sp^VNisn  gypsy. 

Was  dottbly  noble,  as  a  gem  that  holds 
Rare  virtues  in  its  lustre  ;  and  his  death 
Will  pieicc  Don  Silva  with  a  poisoned  dart. 
This  fair  and  curly  youth  was  Arias, 
A  sou  of  the  I'achecos ;  this  dark  face.  .  .  . 

Zauoa. 
Eiionjjh  !  you  know  their  names.    I  had  divined 
Tliiit  tliey  were  near  the  DuIjc,  most  like  had  served 
My  daughter,  were  her  friends  ;  so  rescued  tliein 
From  being  flung  upon  tlie  lieap  of  slain. 
Beseecli  you.  Doctor,  if  you  owe  me  aught 
As  having  served  your  people,  take  the  pains 
To  see  these  bodies  buried  decently. 
And  let  their  names  be  writ  above  their  graves, 
As  those  of  brave  young  Spaniards  who  died  well. 
I  needs  must  bear  this  womanhood  in  my  heart- 
Bearing  my  daughter  there.     For  once  she  prayed— 
'Twas  at  our  parting— "  When  you  see  fair  hair 
Be  pitiful."    And  I  am  forced  to  look 
On  fair  heads  liviug  and  be  pitiless. 
Your  service.  Doctor,  will  be  done  to  her. 

Sei'uakdo. 
A  service  doubly  dear.    For  these  young  dead, 
And  one  less  happy  Spaniard  who  still  livct^. 
Are  offerings  which  I  wienched  from  out  my  heart, 
Constrained  by  cries  of  Israel :  while  my  hands 
Rendered  the  victims  at  command,  my  eyes 
Closed  themselves  vainly,  as  if  vision  lay 
Through  those  poor  loopholes  only.     I  will  go 
And  see  the  graves  dug  by  some  cypresses. 

Zaboa. 

Meanwhile  the  bodies  shall  rest  here.    Farewell. 

{Exit  Skpiiakuo.) 
Nay,  'tis  no  mockery.    She  keeps  me  so 
From  hardening  witli  tlie  hardness  of  my  acts. 
This  Spaniard  shrouded  in  her  love— I  would 
lie  lay  here  too  that  I  might  pity  him. 


Morning The  Placa  Santiago  in  Dedmdr.    A  crowd  of  toumsmen  forming  an 

outer  circle ;  toithin,  Ztncali  and  Moorish  soldiers  drawn  %ip  round  the  central 
space.  On  the  higher  groxmd  in  front  of  the  church  a  stake  with  fagots  heaped, 
and  at  a  little  distance  a  gibbet.  Moorish  music.  Zakoa  enters,  ivearing  his  gnld 
necklace  toith  the  Oypsy  badge  of  the  flaming  torch  over  the  dress  of  a  Moorish 
Captain,  accompanied  by  a  small  band  of  armed  Z'mcali,  who  fall  aside  and 
range  themselves  ivith  the  other  soldiers  lohilc  he  takes  his  stand  in  front  of  the 
stake  and  gibbet.     The  music  ceases,  and  there  is  expectant  silence. 

Zaeoa. 

Men  of  Bedmdr,  well-wishers,  and  allies, 
Whether  of  Moorish  or  of  Hebrew  blood,     • 
Who,  being  galled  by  the  hard  Spaniard's  yoke, 
Have  welcomed  our  quick  conquest  as  release, 
I,  Zarca,  chief  of  Spanish  Gypsies  hold 
By  delegation  of  the  Moorish  King 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  237 

Supreme  command  within  this  town  aiul  fort. 

Ndi-  will  I,  witli  false  show  of  modesty, 

Pi'ot'efs  myself  unworthy  of  this  post, 

For  so  I  should  but  lax  the  giver's  clioice. 

And,  as  ye  know,  while  I  was  prisoner  liere. 

Forging  the  bullets  meant  for  Moorish  hearts, 

J'lUt  likely  now  to  reach  another  mark, 

1  learned  the  secrets  of  the  town's  defence, 

Caught  the  loud  whispers  of  your  disc(jnteut, 

And  so  could  serve  the  purpose  of  the  Moor 

As  the  edge's  keenness  serves  the  weapon's  weight. 

My  Zincali,  lynx-eyed  and  lithe  of  limb, 

Tracked  out  the  high  Sierra's  path, 

Guided  the  hard  ascent,  and  were  the  first 

To  scale  the  walls  and  brave  the  showering  stones. 

In  brief,  I  reached  this  rank  through  service  done 

By  thought  of  mine  and  valor  of  my  tribe, 

Yet  hold  it  but  in  trust,  with  readiness 

To  lay  it  down;  for  we — the  Zincali — 

Will  never  pitch  our  tents  again  on  land 

The  Spaniard  grudges  us:  we  seek  a  home 

Where  we  may  spread  and  ripen  like  the  corn 

By  blessing  of  the  sun  aud  spacious  earth. 

Ye  wish  us  well,  I  think,  aud  are  our  friends  ? 

Crowd. 

Long  life  to  Zarca  and  his  Zincali ! 

Zakoa. 

Now,  for  the  cause  of  our  assembling  here. 

'Twas  my  command  that-  rescued  from  your  hands 

That  Spanish  Prior  and  Inquisitor 

Whom  in  fierce  retribution  you  had  bound 

Aud  meant  to  burn,  lied  to  a  planted  cross. 

I  rescued  him  with  promise  that  his  death 

Should  be  more  signal  in  its  justice — made 

Public  in  fullest  sense,  and  orderly. 

Here,  then,  you  see  the  stake— slow  death  by  fire ; 

And  there  a  gibbet — swift  death  by  the  cord. 

Now  hear  me.  Moors  and  Hebrews  of  Bedmftr, 

Our  kindred  by  the  warmth  of  Eastern  blood  1 

Punishing  cruel  wrong  by  cruelty 

We  copy  Christian  crime.     Vengeance  is  just: 

Justly  we  rid  the  earth  of  human  fiends 

Who  cari'y  hell  for  pattern  in  their  souls. 

But  in  high  vengeance  there  is  noble  scorn: 

It  tortures  not  the  torturer,  nor  gives 

luiquitous  payment  for  iniquity. 

Tlie  great  avenging  angel  does  not  crawl 

To  kill  the  serpent  with  a  mimic  fang; 

He  stands  erect,  with  sword  of  keenest  edge 

That  slays  like  lightning.     So  too  we  will  slay 

The  cruel  man ;  slay  him  because  he  works 

Woe  to  mankind.    Aud  I  have  given  command 

To  pile  these  fagots,  not  to  burn  quick  flesh. 

But  for  a  sign  of  that  dire  wrong  to  men 

Which  arms  our  wrath  with  justice.    While,  to  show 


288  TiiE  spANisn  c.ypsT. 

This  Christian  worshipper  that  wc  obey 
A  better  law  thnii  his,  lie  shall  ho  led 
Straijcht  to  the  {libbet  and  to  swiftest  death. 
For  1,  the  chieftain  of  the  Oyjjsies,  will 
My  people  shed  no  blood  hut  what  is  shed 
In  heat  of  battle  or  in  judgment  strict 
With  calm  deliberation  on  the  right. 
Such  is  my  will,  and  if  it  please  yon — well. 

Ciiovvi). 
It  pleases  ns.    Long  life  to  Zarca ! 

Zaboa. 

Harli ! 
The  bell  is  etrilcing,  and  they  bring  even  now 
The  prisoner  from  the  fort.     What,  Nadar  ? 
Nada^  (has  appeared,  cutting  the  crowd,  and  advancing  towarde  Zaboa  till  he 
is  rmar  enough  to  speak  in  an  uiulertonc). 


I  have  obeyed  your  word,  have  followed  it 
As  water  does  the  furrow  in  the  rock. 


Chief, 


Your  band  is  here? 


'Twas  so  I  ordered. 


Zauoa. 

Napau. 
Yes,  and  the  Spaniard  too 

Zaboa. 


Nadar. 
Ay,  but  this  sleek  hound, 
Who  slipped  his  collar  off  to  join  the  wolves. 
Has  still  a  heart  for  none  but  kennelled  brutes, 
lie  rages  at  the  taking  of  the  town, 
Says  all  his  friends  are  butchered ;  and  one  corpse 
He  stumbled  on— well,  I  would  sooner  be 
A  murdered  Gypsy's  dog,  and  howl  for  him, 
Than  be  this  Spaniard.    Rage  has  made  him  whiter. 
One  townsman  taunted  him  with  his  escape, 
And  thanked  him  for  so  favoring  us.  .  .  . 

Zabca. 

Euongh. 
You  gave  him  my  command  that  ho  should  wait 
Within  the  castle,  till  I  saw  him? 

Nadab. 

Yes. 
But  he  defied  me,  broke  away,  ran  loose 
I  know  not  whither ;  he  may  soon  be  here. 
I  came  to  warn  you,  lest  he  work  us  harm. 

Zaboa. 
Fear  not,  I  know  the  road  I  travel  by: 
Its  turns  are  no  surprises.    He  who  rules 
Must  humor  full  as  much  ns  lie  commands; 
Must  let  men  vow  impossibilities; 
Grant  folly's  prayers  that  hinder  folly's  wish 
And  serve  the  ends  of  wisdom.    Ah,  he  comes ! 

[Sweeping  like  some  pale  herald  from  the  dead, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  239 

Whose  shadow-imrtured  eyes,  dazed  by  full  light, 
See  nought  without,  but  give  reverted  sense 
To  the  soul's  imagery,  Silva  canie. 
The  wondering  people  parting  wide  to  get 
Continuous  sight  of  liiiu  as  he  passed  on — 
'lais  high  hidalgo,  who  through  blooming  years 
Had  shone  on  men  with  planetary  calm. 
Believed  in  with  all  sacred  images 
And  saints  that  must  be  taken  as  they  were. 
Though  rendering  meagre  service  for  men's  praise : 
Bareheaded  now,  carrying  an  unsheathed  sword, 
And  ou  his  breast,  where  late  he  bore  the  cross, 
Wearing  the  Gypsy  badge;  his  form  aslant. 
Driven,  it  seemed,  by  some  invisible  chase, 
liight  to  the  front  of  Zarca.    There  he  paused.] 

Don  oilva. 
Chief,  you  are  treacherous,  cruel,  devilish ! 
Relentless  as  a  curse  that  once  let  loose 
From  lips  of  wrath,  lives  bodiless  to  destroy, 
And  darkly  traps  a  man  in  nets  of  guilt 
AVhich  could  not  weave  themselves  in  open  day 
Before  his  eyes.    Oh,  it  was  bitter  wrong 
To  hold  this  knowledge  locked  within  your  mind, 
To  stand  with  waking  eyes  in  broadest  light. 
And  see  me,  dreaming,  shed  my  kindred's  blood. 
'Tis  horrible  that  men  with  hearts  and  hands 
Should  smile  in  silence  like  the  lirmament 
And  see  a  fellow-mortal  draw  a  lot 
On  which  themselves  have  written  agony  1 
Such  injury  has  no  redress,  no  healing 
Save  what  may  lie  in  stemming  further  ill. 
Poor  balm  for  maiming!    Yet  I  come  to  claim  it. 

Zauoa. 
Fh-st  prove  your  wrongs,  and  I  will  hear  your  claim. 
Mind,  you  are  not  commander  of  Bedmar, 
Nor  duke,  nor  knight,  nor  anything  for  me. 
Save  a  sworn  Gypsy,  subject  ^vith  my  tribe. 
Over  whose  deeds  my  will  is  absolute. 
You  cliose  that  lot,  and  would  have  railed  at  me 
Had  I  refused  it  you  :  I  warned  you  first 
What  oaths  you  had  to  take  .  .  . 

Don  Silva. 

You  never  warned  me 
That  you  had  linked  yourself  with  Moorish  men 
To  take  this  town  and  fortress  of  Bedmar — 
Slay  my  near  kinsman,  him  who  held  ray  place, 
Our  house's  heir  and  guardian — slaj'  ray  friend, 
My  chosen  brother — desecrate  the  church 
Where  once  ray  mother  held  rae  in  her  arms, 
Making  the  holy  chrism  holier 
With  tears  of  joy  that  fell  upon  my  brow ! 
You  never  warned  .  .  . 

Zauoa. 

I  warned  you  of  your  oath. 
Ton  shrank  not,  were  resolved,  were  sure  your  place 


240  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

Would  never  miss  yon,  and  you  li;id  your  will. 
I  am  no  priest,  and  keep  no  consciences: 
I  keep  my  own  place  mid  my  own  command. 

Don  Silva. 

I  said  my  place  would  nevei"  miss  me — yes ! 

A  thousand  Spaniards  died  on  that  same  day 

And  were  not  missed ;   their  garments  clothed  the  backs 

That  else  were  bare  .  .  . 

Zauoa, 

But  you  were  just  the  one 
Above  the  thousaud,  had  you  knowu  the  die 
That  fate  was  throwing  then. 

Don  Silva. 

You  knew  it — you  ! 
With  fiendish  knowledge,  smiling  at  the  end. 
Y^ou  knew  what  snares  had  made  my  flying  steps 
Murderous ;  you  let  me  lock  my  soul  with  oaths 
Which  your  acts  made  a  hellish  sacrament. 
I  say,  you  knew  ihi.s  as  a  liend  would  know  it, 
And  let  me  damn  myself. 

Zakca. 
The  deed  was  done 
Before  you  took  your  oath,  or  reached  our  camp, — 
Done  when  you  slijiped  in  secret  from  the  post 
'Twas  yours  to  keep,  and  not  to  meditate 
If  others  might  not  till  it.     For  your  oath. 
What  man  is  he  who  brandishes  a  sword 
In  darkness,  kills  his  friends,  and  rages  then 
Against  the  night  that  kept  him  ignorant? 
Sliould  I,  for  one  unstable  Si)aniard,  quit 
My  steadfast  ends  as  father  and  as  chief; 
Eenonnce  my  daughter  and  my  people's  hope, 
Lest  a  deserter  should  be  made  ashamed? 

Don  Sii.va. 

Your  daughter— O  great  God !  I  vent  but  madness. 
The  past  will  never  change.    I  come  to  stem 
Harm  that  may  yet  be  hindered.    Chief— this  stake- 
Tell  me  who  is  to  die !    Are  you  not  bound 
Y^ourself  to  him  you  took  in  fellowship? 
The  town  is  yours ;  let  me  but  save  the  blood 
That  still  is  warm  in  men  who  were  my  .  .  , 

Zauoa. 

Peace  I 
They  bring  the  prisoner. 

[Zarca  waved  his  arm 
With  head  averse,  in  ])eremptory  sign 
That  'twixt  them  now  there  should  be  space  and  eilencie. 
Most  ej'es  had  turned  to  where  the  prisoner 
Advanced  among  his  guards;  and  Silva  too 
Turned  eagerly,  all  other  striving  quelled 
By  striving  with  the  dread  lest  he  should  see 
nis  thought  outside  him..    And  he  s.aw  it  there. 


THE   SPANISH  GYPSY.  241 

The  prisoner  was  Father  Isidor : 

The  man  wliom  once  he  flercely  had  accused 

As  author  of  his  misdeeds— wliose  desij;ns 

Had  forced  him  into  fatal  secrecy. 

The  imperious  and  inexorable  Will 

Was  yoked,  and  he  who  had  been  pitiless 

To  Silva's  love,  was  led  to  pitiless  death. 

O  hateful  victory  of  blind  wishes— prayers 

Which  hell  had  overheard  and  swift  fulfilled'. 

The  triumph  was  a  torture,  turning  all 

The  strength  of  passion  into  strength  of  pain. 

Kemorse  was  bora  within  him,  that  dire  birth 

Which  robs  all  else  of  nurture— cancerous, 

Forcing  each  pulse  to  feed  its  anguish,  turning 

All  sweetest  residues  of  healthy  life 

To  fibrous  clutches  of  slow  misery. 

Silva  had  but  rebelled— he  was  not  free; 

And  all  the  subtile  cords  that  bound  his  soul 

Were  tightened  by  the  strain  of  one  rash  leap 

Made  in  defiance.    He  accused  no  more, 

But  dumbly  shrank  before  accusing  throngs 

Of  thoughts,  the  impetuous  recurrent  rush 

Of  all  his  past-created,  unchanged  self 

The  Father  came  bareheaded,  frocked,  a  rope 

Around  his  neck,— but  clad  with  majesty, 

The  strength  of  resolute  undivided  souls 

Who,  owning  law,  obey  it.    In  his  hand 

He  bore  a  crucifix,  and  praying,  gazed 

Solely  on  that  white  image.    But  his  guards 

Parted  in  front,  and  paused  as  they  approached 

The  centre  where  the  stake  was.     Isidor 

Lifted  his  eyes  to  look  around  him— calm, 

Prepared  to  speak  last  words  of  willingness 

To  meet  his  death— last  words  of  faith  unchanged, 

That,  working  for  Christ's  kingdom,  he  had  wrought 

Kighteously.    But  his  glance  met  Silva's  eyes 

And  drew  him.     Even  images  of  stone 

Look  living  with  reproach  on  him  who  maims, 

Profanes,  defiles  them.    Silva  penitent 

Moved  forward,  would  have  knelt  before  the  man 

Who  still  was  one  with  all  the  sacred  things 

That  came  back  on  him  in  their  sacredness, 

Kindred,  and  oaths,  and  awe,  and  mystery. 

But  at  the  sight,  the  Father  thrust  the  cross 

With  deprecating  act  before  him,  and  his  face 

Pale-quivering,  flashed  out  horror  like  white  light 

Flashed  from  the  angel's  sword  that  dooming  drave 

The  sinner  to  the  wilderness.    He  spoke.] 

Fatuer  Isii>on. 

Back  from  me,  traitorous  and  accursed  man  I 

Defile  not  me,  who  grasp  the  holiest. 

With  touch  or  breath!    Thou  foulest  murdererl 

Fouler  than  Cain  who  struck  his  brother  down 

In  jealous  rage,  thou  for  thy  base  delight 

Hast  oped  the  gate  for  wolves  to  come  and  tear 

25*  L* 


242  Tllli   SPANISH   GYl'SY. 

Uucouuted  brethren,  weak  aud  strong  alike, 
The  helpless  priest,  the  warrior  all  uiiarnied 
Afj;ainst  a  faithless  leader:  on  thy  liciul 
Will  rest  the  sacrilege,  ou  thy  soul  the  blood. 
These  bliiul  barbarians,  misbelievers,  Moors, 
Arc  bnt  as  I'ilate  and  his  soldiery; 
Thon,  Jiubis,  weighted  with  tliat  heaviest  crime 
Wliicli  deepens  hell !    I  warned  you  of  this  end. 
A  traitorous  leader,  false  to  God  and  man, 
A  kuight  apostate,  you  shall  soon  behold 
Above  your  people's  blood  the  light  of  flames 
Kindled  by  you  to  Ixirn  me — bnru  the  flesh 
Twin  with  your  father's.    O  most  wretched  man  I 
Whose  memory  shall  be  of  broken  oaths— 
liroken  for  lust — I  turn  away  mine  eyes 
Forever  from  you.    Sec,  the  stake  is  ready 
And  I  am  ready  too. 

Don  Silva. 
It  shall  not  be ! 
{Etusing  his  sword,  he  rushes  in  front  of  the  cpiards  who  are  advancing^ 

and  impedes  thcvi.) 
If  you  are  human,  Chief,  hear  my  demand  I 
Stretch  not  my  soul  upon  the  endless  rack 
Of  this  man's  torture  I 

Zauca. 
Stand  aside,  my  lord  1 
Put  up  your  sword.    You  vowed  obedience 
To  me,  your  cliief.    It  was  your  latest  vow. 

Don  Silva. 

No !  hew  me  from  the  spot,  or  festen  me 
Amid  the  fagots  too,  if  he  must  burn. 

Zaeoa. 

What  should  befall  that  persecuting  monk 

Was  fixed  before  you  came :   no  cruelty. 

No  nicely  measured  torture,  weight  for  weight 

Of  injury,  no  luscious-toothed  revenge 

That  justifies  the  injurer  by  its  joy: 

I  seek  bnt  rescue  aud  security 

For  harmless  men,  and  such  security 

Means  death  to  vipers  and  inquisitors. 

These  fagots  shall  but  innocently  blaze 

In  sign  of  gladness,  when  this  man  is  dead, 

That  one  more  torturer  has  left  the  earth. 

'Tis  not  for  infidels  to  burn  live  men 

And  ape  the  rules  of  Christian  piety. 

This  hard  oppressor  shall  not  die  by  fire: 

He  mounts  the  gibbet,  dies  a  speedy  death. 

That,  like  a  transfixed  dragon,  he  may  cease 

To  vex  mankind.    Quick,  guards,  and  clear  the  path  1 

[As  well-trained  hounds  that  hold  their  fleetness  tense 

In  watchful,  loving  fixity  of  dark  eyes. 

And  move  with  movement  of  their  master's  will. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  243 

The  Gypsies  with  a  wavelike  swiftness  met 
Around  tlie  Fatlier,  and  iu  wheeling  course 
Passed  beyond  Silva  to  the  gibljet's  foot, 
I'ehiud  their  chieftain.     Sudden  left  alone 
With  weapon  bai-e,  the  multitude  aloof, 
Silva  was  mazed  in  doubtful  consciousness, 
As  cue  who  slumbering  in  the  day  awakes 
From  striving  into  freedom,  and  yet  feels 
His  sense  half  captive  to  intangible  things; 
Then  with  a  Hush  of  new  decision  sheathed 
His  futile  naked  weapon,  and  strode  quick 
To  Zarca,  speaking  with  a  voice  new-toned, 
The  struggling  soul's  hoarse,  suffocated  cry 
Beneath  the  grappling  anguish  of  despair.] 

Don  Sii.va. 

You,  Zincalo.  devil,  blackest  infidel ! 

You  cannot  hate  that  man  as  you  hate  me! 

Finish  your  torture— take  me — lift  me  up 

And  let  the  crowd  spit  at  me — every  Moor 

Shoot  reeds  at  me,  and  kill  me  with  slow  death 

Beneath  the  mid-day  fervor  of  the  sun— 

Or  crucify  mo  with  a  thieving  hound — 

Slake  your  hate  so,  and  I  will  thank  it :  spare  me 

Ouly  this  man  I 

Zakoa. 
Madman,  I  hate  you  not. 
But  if  I  did,  my  hate  were  poorly  served 
By  my  device,  if  I  should  strive  to  mis 
A  bitterer  misery  for  you  than  to  taste 
With  leisure  of  a  soul  in  unharmed  limbs 
The  flavor  of  your  folly.    For  my  course, 
It  has  a  goal,  and  takes  no  truant  path 
Because  of  you.    I  am  your  chief:   to  me 
You're  nought  more  than  a  Zincalo  in  revolt. 

Don  Sii.va. 
No,  I'm  no  Zincalo !    I  here  disown 
The  name  I  took  in  madness.    Ilere  I  tear 
This  badge  away.    I  am  a  Catholic  kuight, 
A  Spaniard  who  will  die  a  Spaniard's  death ! 

[Hark!  while  he  casts  the  badge  upon  the  ground 

And  tramples  on  it,  Silva  hears  a  shout: 

Was  it  a  shout  that  threatened  him  ?    lie  looked 

From  out  the  dizzying  flames  of  his  own  rage 

In  hope  of  adversaries — and  he  saw  above 

The  form  of  Father  Isidor  upswung 

Convulsed  with  martyr  throes  ;  and  knew  the  shout 

For  wonted  exultation  of  the  crowd 

When  malefactors  die— or  saints,  or  heroes. 

And  now  to  him  that  white-frocked  murdered  form 

Which  hanging  judged  him  as  its  murderer, 

Turned  to  a  symbol  of  his  guilt,  and  stirred 

Tremors  till  then  unwaked.    With  sudden  snatch 

At  something  hidden  iu  his  breast,  he  strode 

Eight  upon  Zarca:  at  the  instant,  down 


244  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

Fell  the  great  Chief,  and  Silvn,  staggering  back, 
Heard  not  the  Gyps-ies'  shriek,  fcU  not  the  fangs 
Of  their  fierce  grasp— heard,  felt  but  Zarca's  words 
Which  seemed  his  soul  oiitlcnpiiig  in  a  cry 
And  urging  men  to  run  like  rival  waves 
Whose  chivalry  is  but  obedience.] 

Zako\  (as  he  falls). 
My  daughter!  call  her!    Call  my  daughter! 

Nadab  {stipportinrj  Zauoa  atul  crijing  to  the  Gypsies  luho  have  chttcJuai  Silva). 

Stay ! 
Tear  not  the  Siianiard,  tic  him  to  the  stake  : 
Hear  what  the  Chief  shall  bid  us— there  is  time  ! 

[Swiftly  they  tied  him,  pleasing  vengeance  so 

With  promise  that  would  leave  them  free  to  watch 

Their  stricken  good,  their  Chief  stretched  lielplessiy 

Pillowed  upon  the  strength  of  loving  limbs. 

lie  heaved  low  groans,  but  would  not  spend  his  breath 

In  useless  words:  he  waited  till  she  came, 

Keeping  his  life  within  the  citadel 

Of  one  great  hope.    And  now  around  him  closed 

(But  in  wide  circle,  checked  by  loving  fear) 

Ills  people  all,  holding  their  wails  suppressed 

Lest  Death  believed  in  should  be  over-bold  : 

All  life  hung  on  their  Chief— he  would  not  die  ; 

His  Image  gone,  there  were  no  wholeness  left 

To  make  a  world  of  for  the  Zincali's  thought. 

Eager  they  stood,  but  hushed  ;  the  outer  crowd 

Spoke  only  in  low  murmurs,  and  some  climbed 

And  clung  with  legs  and  arms  on  perilous  coignes, 

Striving  to  see  where  that  colossal  life 

Lay  panting— lay  a  Titan  struggling  still 

To  hold  and  give  the  precious  hidden  fire 

Before  the  stronger  grappled  him.     Above 

The  young  bright  morning  cast  athwart  wliiie  walls 

Iler  shadows  bine,  and  with  their  clear-cut  line, 

Mildly  relentless  as  the  dial-hand's. 

Measured  the  shrinking  future  of  an  hotir 

Which  held  a  shrinking  hope.     And  all  the  while 

The  silent  beat  of  time  in  each  man's  soul 

Made  aching  pulses. 

But  the  cry,  "  She  comes  !" 
Parted  the  crowd  like  waters:  and  she  came. 
Swiftly  as  once  before,  inspired  with  joy. 
She  flashed  across  the  space  and  made  new  light. 
Glowing  upon  the  glow  of  evening. 
So  swiftly  now  she  came,  inspired  with  woe, 
Strong  witli  the  strength  of  all  her  father's  pain, 
Thrilling  her  as  with  fire  of  rage  divine 
And  battling  energy.     She  knew — saw  all : 
The  stake  with  Silva  bound — her  father  pierced — 
To  this  she  had  been  boru:  a  second  time 
Her  father  called  her  to  the  task  of  life. 

She  knelt  beside  him.    Then  he  raised  himself, 


THE  SPANISH  GTPSY.  245 

Aud  oil  hci-  face  there  flashed  from  his  the  light 

As  of  ii  star  tliat  waned,  but  flames  anew 

In  mighty  dissolution  :  'twas  the  flame 

Of  a  sui'viving  trust,  in  agony. 

He  spoke  the  parting  prayer  that  was  command, 

Must  sway  her  will,  and  reign  invisibly.] 

Zauoa. 

My  daughter,  you  have  promised — yon  will  live 

To  save  our  people.     In  my  garments  here 

I  carry  written  pledges  from  the  Moor: 

He  will  keep  faith  in  Spain  and  Africa. 

Your  weakness  may  be  stronger  than  my  strength, 

Winning  more  love.  ...  I  cannot  tell  the  end.  .  .  . 

I  held  my  people's  good  within  my  breast. 

Behold,  now  I  deliver  it  to  you. 

See,  it  still  breathes  unstraugled— if  it  dies, 

Let  not  your  failing  will  be  murderer.  .  .  . 

Rise,  tell  our  people  now  I  wait  in  pain  .  .  . 

I  cannot  die  until  I  hear  them  say 

They  will  obey  yon. 

[Meek,  she  pressed  her  Ifps 
With  slow  solemnity  upon  his  brow, 
Sealing  her  pledges.    Firmly  then  she  rose, 
Aud  met  her  people's  eyes  with  kindred  gaze, 
Darlc-flashing,  flred  by  efi'ort  strenuous 
Trampling  on  pain.] 

Fedai-ma. 

Ye  Ziucali  all,  who  hear  I 
Your  Chief  is  dying:  I  his  daugliter  live 
To  do  his  dying  will.    He  asks  you  now 
To  promise  me  obedience  as  your  Queen, 
That  we  may  seek  the  land  he  won  for  us. 
And  live  the  better  life  for  which  he  toiled. 
Speak  now,  and  till  my  father's  dying  ear 
With  promise  that  you  wU  obey  him  dead, 
Obeying  me  his  child. 

[.Straightway  arose 
A  shout  of  promise,  sharpening  into  cries 
That  seemed  to  plead  despairingly  with  death.] 

The  Zinoali. 

We  will  obey  !    Our  Chief  shall  never  die  ! 
We  will  obey  him — will  obey  our  Queen  ! 

[The  shout  unanimous,  the  concurrent  rush 

Of  many  voices,  quiring  shook  the  air 

With  multitudinous  wave:  now  rose,  now  fell, 

Then  rose  again,  the  echoes  following  slow. 

As  if  the  scattered  brethren  of  the  tribe 

Had  caught  afar  and  joined  the  ready  vow. 

Then  some  could  hold  no  longer,  but  must  rush 

To  kiss  his  dying  feet,  aud  some  to  kiss 

The  hem  of  their  Queen's  garment.    15ut  she  raised 

Her  liand  to  hush  them.     "  Hark  !  your  Chief  may  speak 

Another  wish."    Quickly  she  kueeled  again, 


246  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

VVhUo  Uicy  upon  the  gronju!  kept  motionless, 

With  head  oiitntretchcd.     Tlicy  heard  his  words;  for  now, 

Griisping  at  Nadar's  arm,  he  spolvc  more  loud. 

As  one  who,  having  fought  and  conquered,  hurls 

His  strength  away  with  hurling  off  his  shield.] 

Zaroa. 
Let  loose  the  Spaniard  1  give  him  back  his  sword; 
He  cannot  move  to  any  vengeance  more— 
His  soul  is  locked  'twixt  two  opposing  crimes. 
I  charge  you  let  him  go  uuharnied  and  free 
Kow  through  your  midst.  .  .  . 

[With  that  he  sank  again— 
His  breast  heaved  strongly  tow'rd  sharp  sudden  falls. 
And  all  his  life  seemed  needed  for  each  breath : 
Yet  once  he  spoke.] 

My  daughter,  lay  your  arm 
Beneath  my  head  .  .  .  so  .  .  .  bend  and  breathe  on  me. 
I  cannot  see  you  more  ...  the  Night  is  come. 
Be  strong  .  .  .  remember  ...  I  can  only  .  .  .  die. 

[His  voice  went  into  silence,  but  his  breast 

Heaved  long  and  moaned  :  its  broad  strength  kept  a  life 

That  heard  nought,  saw  nought,  save  what  once  had  l)ccn, 

And  what  might  be  in  days  and  realms  afar— 

Which  now  in  pale  procession  faded  on 

Toward  the  thick  darkness.     And  she  bent  above 

In  sacramental  watch  to  see  great  Death, 

Compauion  of  her  future,  who  would  wear 

Forever  in  her  eyes  her  father's  form. 

And  yet  she  knew  that  hurrying  feet  had  gone 

To  do  the  Chief's  behest,  and  in  her  soul 

He  who  was  once  its  lord  was  bciut;  jarred 

With  loosening  of  cords,  that  would  not  loose 

The  tightening  torture  of  his  anguish.    This— 

Oh,  she  knew  it !— knew  it  as  martyrs  knew 

The  prongs  that  tore  their  flesh,  while  yet  their  tongues 

Refused  the  ease  of  lies.    In  moments  high 

Space  widens  in  the  soul.    And  so  she  knelt, 

Clinging  with  piety  and  awed  resolve 

Beside  this  altar  of  her  father's  life, 

Seeing  long  travel  under  solemn  suns 

Stretching  beyond  it ;  never  turned  her  eyes, 

Yet  felt  that  Silva  passed  ;  beheld  his  face 

Pale,  vivid,  .all  alone,  imploring  her 

Across  black  waters  fathomless. 

And  he  passed. 

The  Gypsies  made  wide  pathway,  shrank  aloof 
As  those  who  fear  to  touch  the  thing  they  hate, 
Lest  hate  triumphant,  mastering  all  the  limbs, 
Should  tear,  bite,  crush,  in  spite  of  hindering  will. 
Slowly  he  walked,  reluctant  to  be  safe 
And  bear  dishonored  life  which  none  assailed; 
Walked  hesitatingly,  all  his  frame  instinct 
With  high-born  spirit,  never  used  to  dread 
'Or  crouch  for  smiles,  yet  etnug,  yet  quivering 


THE   SPANISH  GYPSY.  247 

With  helpless  strength,  and  in  his  sonl  convulsed 

By  visions  where  pale  honor  held  a  lump 

Over  wide-reaching  crime.    Silence  hung  round  : 

It  seemed  the  Pkifa  hushed  itself  to  hear 

His  footsteps  and  the  Chiefs  deep  dying  breath. 

Eyes  quickened  in  the  stillness,  and  the  light 

Seemed  one  clear  gaze  upon  his  misery. 

And  yet  he  could  not  pass  her  without  pause: 

One  instant  he  must  pause  and  look  at  her; 

But  with  that  glance  at  her  averted  head, 

New-urged  by  paiu  he  turned  away  and  went, 

Carrying  forever  with  him  what  he  fled — 

Iler  murdered  love— her  love,  a  dear  wronged  ghost, 

Facing  him,  beauteous,  'mid  the  throngs  of  hell. 

O  fallen  and  forsaken  !  were  no  hearts 
Amid  that  crowd,  mindful  of  what  had  been? — 
Hearts  such  as  wait  on  beggared  royalty. 
Or  silent  watch  by  sinners  who  despair  ? 

Silva  had  vanished.    That  dismissed  revenge 
Made  larger  room  for  sorrow  in  fierce  hearts; 
And  sorrow  filled  them.    For  the  Chief  was  dead. 
The  mighty  breast  subsided  slow  to  calm. 
Slow  from  the  face  the  ethereal  spirit  waned. 
As  wanes  the  parting  glory  from  the  heights, 
And  leaves  them  in  their  pallid  majesty. 
Fedalma  kissed  the  marble  lips,  and  said, 
"He  breathes  no  more."    And  then  a  long  loud  wail, 
Poured  out  upou  the  morning,  made  her  light 
Ghastly  as  smiles  on  some  fair  maniac's  face 
Smiling  unconscious  o'er  her  bridegroom's  corse. 
The  wailing  men  in  eager  press  closed  round. 
And  made  a  shadowing  pall  beneath  the  sun. 
They  lifted  reverent  the  prostrate  strength, 
Sceptred  anew  by  death.    Fedalma  walked 
Tearless,  erect,  following  the  dead — her  cries 
Deep  smothering  in  her  breast,  as  one  who  guides 
Her  children  through  the  wilds,  and  sees  and  knows 
Of  danger  more  than  they,  and  feels  more  pangs. 
Yet  shrinks  not,  groans  not,  bearing  in  her  heart 
Their  ignorant  misery  and  their  trust  in  her. 


BOOK  V. 

TuE  eastward  rocks  of  Almeria's  bay 

Answer  long  farewells  of  the  travelling  sun 

With  softest  glow  as  from  an  inward  pnlse 

Changing  and  flashing:  all  the  Moorish  ships 

Seem  conscious  too,  and  shoot  out  sudden  shadows; 

Their  black  hulls  snatch  a  glory,  and  their  sails 

Show  variegated  radiance,  gently  stirred 

Like  broad  wings  poised.    Two  galleys  moored  apart 

Show  decks  as  busy  as  a  home  of  ants 

Storing  new  forage  ;  from  their  sides  the  boats. 

Slowly  pufhed  ofT,  anon  with  flashing  oar 

Make  transit  to  the  quay's  smooth-quarried  edge. 


248  THE   SPANISH  GYPSY. 

Where  throii<?ing  Gypsies  are  in  haste  to  lade 

Each  as  it  comes  with  i;iaiidaincs,  babes,  and  wives, 

Or  witli  (lust-tinted  goods,  the  conijjany 

Of  wandeiing  years.     Nought  seems  to  lie  unmoved, 

For  'mid  tlie  throng  the  lights  and  shadows  play. 

And  make  all  snrl'ace  eager,  while  the  boats 

Sway  restless  as  a  horse  that  hoard  the  shouts 

And  surging  hum  incessant.    Naked  limbs 

With  beauteous  ease  bend,  lift,  and  throw,  or  raise 

High  signalliug  hands.    The  black-haired  mother  steps 

Athwart  the  boat's  edge,  and  with  opened  arms 

A  wandering  Isis  outcast  from  the  gods, 

Leans  towards  her  lifted  little  one.    The  boat 

Full-laden  cuts  the  waves,  aud  dirk-like  cries 

Rise  and  then  fall  within  it  as  it  moves 

From  high  to  lower  and  from  bright  to  dark. 

Hither  and  thither,  grave  white-turbanued  Moors 

Move  helpfully,  aud  some  bring  welcome  gifts, 

Bright  stuffs  aud  cutlery,  and  bags  of  seed. 

To  make  new  waving  crops  in  Africa. 

Others  aloof  with  folded  arms  slow-eyed 

Survey  man's  labor,  saying,  "God  is  great;" 

Or  seek  with  question  dw.p  the  Gyps^ies'  root, 

And  whether  their  false  faith,  being  small,  will  prove 

Less  damning  than  the  copious  false  creeds 

Of  Jews  and  Christians;  Moslem  subtlety 

Found  balanced  reasons,  warranting  suspense 

As  to  whose  hell  was  deepest — 'twas  enough 

Tliat  there  was  room  for  all.    Thus  the  sedate. 

The  younger  heads  were  busy  with  the  tale 

Of  that  great  Chief  whose  exploits  helped  the  Moor. 

And,  talking  still,  they  shouldered  past  their  friends 

Following  some  lure  which  held  their  distant  gaze 

To  eastward  of  the  quay,  where  yet  remained 

A  low  black  teut  close  guarded  all  around 

By  well-armed  Gypsies.    Fronting  it  above. 

Raised  by  stone-steps  that  sought  a  jutting  strand, 

Fedalma  stood  and  marked  with  anxious  watch 

Each  laden  boat  the  remnant  lessening 

Of  cargo  on  the  shore,  or  traced  the  course 

Of  Nadar  to  aud  fro  in  hard  command 

Of  noisy  tumult ;   imaging  oft  anew 

How  much  of  labor  still  deferred  the  hour 

When  they  must  lift  the  boat  and  bear  away 

Her  father's  coffin,  and  her  feet  must  quit 

This  shore  forever.     Motionless  she  stood, 

Black-crowned  with  wreaths  of  many-shadowed  hair; 

Black-robed,  but  bearing  wide  upon  her  breast 

Iler  father's  goldeu  necklace  and  his  back;e. 

ner  limbs  were  motionless,  but  in  her  eyes 

Aud  iu  her  breathing  liji's  soft  tremulous  curve 

Was  intense  motion  as  of  prisoned  fire 

Escaping  subtly  iu  outleaping  thought. 

She  watches  anxiously,  and  yet  she  dreams: 
The  busy  moments  uow  expand,  now  shrink 
To  uarrowiug  swarms  within  the  refluent  space 


THE   SPANISH  GYPSY.  249 

Of  changeful  coiiscionsiiess.    For  in  her  thought 

Ah-eady  she  has  left  the  fadiug  shore, 

Sails  with  her  peojjle,  scelis  an  iinlvuowii  hind, 

And  bears  the  buruing  length  of  weary  days 

That  parchhig  fall  upon  her  father's  hope, 

Which  she  must  plant  and  see  it  wither  only — 

Wither  and  die.     She  saw  the  end  begun. 

The  Gypsy  hearts  were  not  unfaithful :  she 

Was  centre  to  the  savage  loyalty 

Whicli  vowed  obedience  to  Zarca  dead. 

But  soon  their  natures  missed  the  constant  stress 

Of  his  command,  that,  while  it  fired,  restrained 

By  urgency  supreme,  and  left  no  play 

To  fickle  impulse  scattering  desire. 

They  loved  their  Queen,  trusted  in  Zarca's  child. 

Would  hear  her  o'er  the  desert  on  their  arms 

And  think  the  weight  a  gladsome  victory; 

But  that  great  force  which  knit  them  into  one, 

The  invisible  passion  of  her  father's  soul, 

That  wrought  them  visibly  into  its  will. 

And  would  have  bound  their  lives  with  permanence, 

Was  gone.    Already  Hassan  and  two  bands, 

Drawn  by  fiesli  baits  of  gain,  had  newly  sold 

Their  jervice  to  the  Moors,  despite  her  call, 

Known  as  the  echo  of  her  father's  will. 

To  all  the  tribe,  that  they  should  pass  with  her 

Straightway  lo  Telemsiin.    They  were  not  moved 

By  worse  rebellion  than  the  wilful  wish 

To  fashion  their  own  service  ;  they  still  meant 

To  come  when  it  should  suit  them.     But  she  said, 

This  is  the  cloud  no  bigger  than  a  hand, 

Sure-threatening.    In  a  little  while,  the  tribe 

That  was  to  be  the  ensign  of  the  race. 

And  draw  it  into  conscious  union. 

Itself  would  break  in  small  and  scattered  bands 

That,  living  on  scant  prey,  would  still  disperse 

And  propagate  forgetfuluess.     Brief  years. 

And  that  great  purpose  fed  with  vital  fire 

That  might  have  glowed  for  half  a  centurj', 

Subduing,  quickening,  shaping,  like  a  sun — 

Would  be  a  faint  tradition,  flickering  low 

In  dying  memories,  fringing  with  dim  light 

The  nearer  dark. 

Far,  far  the  future  stretched 
Beyond  that  busy  jjresent  on  the  quay. 
Far  her  straight  path  beyond  it.    Yet  she  watched 
To  mark  the  growing  hour,  and  yet  in  dream 
Alternate  she  beheld  another  track. 
And  felt  herself  unseen  piu'suing  it 
Close  to  a  wanderer,  who  with  haggard  gaze 
Looked  out  on  loneliness.     The  backward  years — 
Oh,  she  would  not  foi-get  them — would  not  drink 
Of  waters  that  brought  rest,  while  he  far  off 
Kemcmbered.     "  Father,  I  renounced  the  joy  ; 
You  must  forgive  the  sorrow." 

So  she  stood, 
Her  strnggliug  life  compressed  into  that  hour. 


250  TIIE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

Ycriniing,  resolving,  conquering ;  though  slic  seemed 

Slill  lis  a  tutclnry  image  sent 

To  guard  her  people  and  to  he  the  strength 

Of  some  rock-uitadcl. 

IJelow  her  eat 
Slim  mischievous  ninda,  happy,  red-bedecked 
Witli  rows  of  berries,  grinning,  nodding  ofl. 
And  shaking  high  her  small  dark  aim  and  hand 
Kesponsive  to  the  black-nianed  Isinaol, 
VVlu)  held  aloft  his  spoil,  and  clad  in  skins 
Seemed  the  Boy-;)rophet  of  the  wilderness 
Escaped  from  tasks  iirophetic.     But  anon  • 

Ilinda  would  backward  turn  upon  her  knees, 
And  like  a  pretty  loving  hound  would  bend 
To  fondle  her  Queen's  feet,  then  lift  her  head 
Hoping  to  feel  the  gently  pressing  palm 
AVhich  touched  the  deeper  sense.    Fedalma  knew — 
From  out  the  black  robe  stretched  her  speaking  hand 
And  shared  the  girl's  content. 

So  the  dire  hours 
Burdened  with  destiny— the  death  of  hopes 
Darkening  long  generations,  or  the  birth 
Of  thoughts  undying— such  hours  sweep  along 
In  their  aerial  ocean  measureless 
Myriads  of  little  joys,  that  ripen  sweet 
And  soothe  the  sorrowful  spirit  of  the  world, 
Groaning  and  travailing  with  the  painful  birth 
Of  slow  redemption. 

But  emerging  now 
From  eastward  fringing  Hues  of  idling  men 
Quick  Juan  lightly  sought  the  upward  steps 
Behind  Fedalma,  and  two  paces  off, 
With  head  uncovered,  said  in  gentle  tones, 
"Lady  Fedalma  !"— (Juan's  jiassword  now 
Used  by  no  other),  and  Fedalma  turned, 
Knowing  who  sought  her.    He  advanced  a  step, 
And  meeting  straight  her  large  calm  questioning  gaze, 
Warned  her  of  some  grave  purport  by  a  face 
That  told  of  trouble.    Lower  still  he  spoke. 

JCAN. 

Look  from  me,  lady,  towards  a  moving  form 

That  quits  the  crowd  and  seeks  the  lonelier  strand— 

A  tall  and  gray-clad  pilgrim.  .  .  . 

[Solemnly 
His  low  tones  fell  on  her,  as  if  she  passed 
Into  religious  dimness  among  tombs. 
And  trod  on  names  in  everlasting  rest. 
Lingeringly  slie  looked,  and  then  with  voice 
Deep  and  yet  soft,  like  notes  from  some  long  cliord 
Responsive  to  thrilled  air,  said — ] 

Fedalma. 

It  is  he  1 

[Juan  kept  silence  for  a  little  space. 

With  reverent  caution,  lest  his  lighter  grief 

Might  seem  a  wanton  touch  npou  her  pain. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  251 

But  time  was  urging  him  with  visible  flight, 
Changing  the  shadows:  he  must  ntter  all.] 

J  CAN. 

That  man  was  yonng  when  last  I  pressed  his  hand— 

In  that  dread  moment  when  he  left  Bedm^ir. 

He  has  aged  since :  the  week  has  made  him  gray. 

And  yet  I  knew  him — knew  the  while-streaked  hair 

Before  I  saw  his  face,  as  I  shonld  know 

The  tear-dimmed  writing  of  a  friend.    See  now— 

Does  he  not  linger— pause? — perhaps  expect  .  .  . 

[Juan  pled  timidly:  Fedalma's  eyes 

Flashed;  and  through  all  her  frame  there  ran  the  shock 

Of  some  sharp-wounding  joy,  like  his  who  ha.stes 

And  dreads  to  come  too  late,  and  comes  in  time 

To  press  a  loved  hand  dying.    She  was  mute 

And  made  no  gesture:  all  her  being  paused 

In  resolution,  as  some  leonine  wave 

That  makes  a  moment's  silence  ere  it  leaps.] 

Juan. 
He  came  fi-om  Carthageua,  in  a  boat 
Too  slight  for  safety ;  yon  small  two-oared  boat 
Below  the  rock;  the  fisher-boy  within 
Awaits  his  signal.    But  the  pilgrim  waits.  .  .  . 

Fedai.ma. 
Yes,  I  will  go !— Father,  I  owe  him  this, 
For  loving  me  made  all  his  misery. 
And  we  will  look  once  more— will  say  farewell 
As  in  a  solemn  rite  to  strengthen  us 
For  our  eternal  parting.    Juan,  stay 
Here  in  my  place,  to  warn  me,  were  there  need. 
And,  Iliuda,  follow  me  ! 

[All  men  who  watched 
Lost  her  regretfully,  then  drew  content 
From  thought  that  she  must  quickly  come  again, 
And  tilled  the  time  with  striving  to  be  near. 
She,  down  the  steps,  along  the  sandy  brink 
To  where  he  stood,  walked  firm ;  with  quickened  step 
The  moment  when  each  felt  the  other  saw. 
He  moved  at  sight  of  her:  their  glances  met; 
It  seemed  they  could  no  more  remain  aloof 
Thau  nearing  waters  hurrying  into  one. 
Yet  their  steps  slackened  and  they  [jaused  apart, 
Pressed  backward  by  the  force  of  memories 
Which  reigned  supreme  as  death  above  desire. 
Two  paces  otT  they  stood  and  silently 
Looked  at  each  other.    Was  it  well  to  speak? 
Could  speech  be  clearer,  stronger,  tell  them  more 
Thau  that  long  gaze  of  their  renouncing  love? 
They  passed  from  sileuce  hardly  knowing  how; 
It  seemed  they  heard  each  other's  thought  before.] 

Don  Sii.TA. 
I  go  to  be  absolved,  to  have  my  life 
Washed  into  fitness  for  an  offering 
To  injured  Spain.    But  I  have  nought  to  give 


252  TIIE  SPANISH   GYI'SY. 

For  that  Inst  injury  to  her  I  loved 

Ueiter  th.'in  1  loved  Spain.     I  am  accurst  ' 

Above  all  sinners,  beinLC  made  the  curse 

Of  her  I  sinned  for.     I'ardou?  Penitence? 

When  they  have  done  their  utmost,  still  beyond 

Out  of  their  reach  staiuLs  Injury  unchanged 

And  changeless.    I  should  see  it  still  in  heaven — 

Out  of  ray  reach,  forever  in  my  sight: 

Wearing  j-our  grief,  'twould  hide  the  smiling  seraphs. 

I  bring  no  puling  prayer,  Fedalma — ask 

No  balm  of  pardon  that  may  soothe  my  soul 

For  others'  bleeding  wounds :  I  am  not  come 

To  say,  "Forgive  me:"  you  must  not  forgive, 

For  you  must  see  me  ever  as  I  arn— 

Your  father's.  .  .  . 

FfiDAI.MA. 

Speak  it  not !    Calamity 
Comes  like  a  deluge  and  o'erfloods  our  crimes, 
Till  sin  is  hidden  in  woe.     You — I — we  two. 
Grasping  we  knew  not  what,  that  seemed  delight, 
Opened  the  sluices  of  that  deep. 

Don  Silva. 

We  two?— 
Fedalma,  you  were  blameless,  helpless. 

Fedalma. 

No! 
It  shall  not  be  that  you  did  anght  alone. 
For  when  we  loved  I  willed  to  reign  in  you, 
And  I  was  jealous  even  of  the  day 
If  it  could  gladden  you  apart  from  me. 
And  so,  it  must  be  that  I  shared  each  deed 
Our  love  was  root  of. 

Don  Sii.va. 

Dear !  you  share  the  woe- 
Nay,  the  worst  dart  of  vengeance  fell  on  you. 

Feb  ALMA. 
Vengeance !    She  does  but  sweep  us  with  her  skirts- 
She  takes  large  space,  and  lies  a  baleful  light 
Revolving  with  long  years — sees  children's  children. 
Blights  them  in  their  prime.  .  .  .  Oh,  if  two  lovers  leaned 
To  breathe  one  air  and  spread  a  pestilence, 
They  would  but  lie  two  livid  victims  dead 
Amid  the  city  of  the  dying.    We 
With  our  poor  petty  lives  have  strangled  one 
That  ages  watch  for  vainly. 

Don  Sii.va. 

Deep  despair 
Fills  all  your  tones  as  with  slow  agony. 
Speak  words  that  narrow  anguish  to  some  shape: 
Tell  me  what  dread  is  close  before  you  ? 

Fedalma. 

None. 
No  dread,  but  clear  assurance  of  the  end. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  253 

My  fiithe."  held  within  his  mighty  frame 
A  people's  life:   great  futures  died  with  him 
Never  to  rise,  until  the  time  shall  ripe 
Some  other  hero  with  the  will  to  save 
The  outcast  Ziucali. 

Don  Silva. 

And  yet  they  shont^ 
1  heard  it — sounded  as  the  i)lentuous  rush 
Of  full-fed  sources,  shaking  their  wild  souls 
With  power  that  pronii.sed  sway. 

Fkdalma, 

Ah  yes,  that  shout 
Came  from  full  hearts :  they  meant  ohedience. 
But  they  are  orphaned:   their  poor  childish  feet 
Are  viigabond  in  spite  of  love,  and  stray 
Forgetful  after  little  lures.    For  nic— 
I  am  but  as  a  funeral  urn  that  hears 
The  ashes  of  a  leader. 

Don  Sii.vA. 

O  great  God  I 
What  am  I  but  a  miserable  brand 
Lit  by  mysterious  wrath?     I  lie  cast  down 
A  blackened  branch  upon  the  desolate  ground 
Where  once  I  kindled  ruin.    I  shall  drink 
No  cup  of  purest  water  but  will  taste 
Bitter  with  thy  lone  hopelessness,  Fedalma. 

Fedalma. 

Nay,  Silva,  think  of  me  as  one  who  sees 

A  light  serene  and  strong  on  one  si>le  j)ath 

Which  she  will  tread  till  death  .  .  . 

He  trusted  me,  and  I  will  keep  his  trust  : 

My  life  shall  be  its  temple.    I  will  plant 

His  sacred  hope  within  the  sanctuary 

And  die  its  priestess — though  I  die  alone, 

A  hoary  woman  on  the  altar-step. 

Cold 'mid  cold  ashes.     Tliat  is  my  chief  good. 

The  deepest  hunser  of  a  faithful  heart 

Is  faithfulness.    Wish  me  nought  else.    And  you — 

You  too  will  liTe.  . . . 

Don  Silva. 

I  go  to  Rome  to  seek 
The  right  to  use  my  knightly  sword  again ; 
The  riglit  to  fill  my  place  and  live  or  die 
So  that  all  Spaniards  shall  not  curse  my  name. 
1  sate  one  hour  upon  the  barren  rock 
And  longed  to  kill  myself;  but  then  I  said, 
I  will  not  leave  my  name  in  infamy, 
I  will  not  be  perpetual  rottenness 
Upon  the  Spaniard's  air.    If  I  must  sink 
At  last  to  hell,  I  will  not  take  my  stand 
Among  the  coward  crew  who  c(nild  not  bear 
The  harm  Ihcmsclvcs  had  done,  which  olbeis  bore. 


254  THE  srANisn  gypsy. 

My  youns;  life  yet  may  fill  sonic  fatal  breach, 
And  1  will  take  no  pardon,  not  my  own, 
Not  God's— no  pardon  idly  on  my  knees: 
But  it  sUiill  come  to  me  upon  my  feet 
And  in  the  thick  of  action,  and  each  deed 
That  carried  shame  and  wron^;  shall  be  the  sting 
That  drives  me  liigher  up  the  steep  of  honor 
In  deeds  of  duteous  service  to  that  Spain 
Who  nourished  me  on  her  expectant  breast, 
The  heir  of  highest  gifts.    I  will  not  fling 
My  earthly  being  down  for  carriou 
To  fill  the  air  with  loathing:  I  will  be 
The  living  prey  of  some  fierce  noble  death 
That  leaps  upon  me  while  I  move.    Aloud 
I  said,  "1  will  redeem  my  name,"  and  then — 
I  know  not  if  aloud:  I  felt  the  words 
Drinking  up  all  my  senses— "  She  still  lives. 
I  would  not  quit  the  dear  familiar  earth 
Where  both  of  us  behold  the  self-same  sun, 
Where  there  can  be  no  strangeness  'twixt  our  thoughts 
So  deep  as  their  communion."    Resolute 
I  rose  and  walked.— Fedalma,  think  of  me 
As  one  who  will  regain  the  only  life 
Where  he  is  other  than  apostate— one 
Who  seeks  but  to  renew  and  keep  the  vows 
Of  Spanish  knight  and  noble.     But  the  breach 
Outside  those  vows— the  fatal  second  breach- 
Lies  a  dark  gulf  where  I  have  nought  to  cast, 
Not  even  expiation — poor  pretence, 
Which  changes  nought  but  what  survives  the  past. 
And  raises  not  the  dead.    That  deep  dark  gulf 
Divides  us. 

Fedai.ma. 

Yes,  forever.    We  must  walk 
Apart  unto  the  end.     Our  marriage  rite 
Is  our  resolve  that  we  will  each  be  true 
To  high  allegiance,  higher  than  our  love. 
Our  dear  young  love— its  breath  was  happiness ! 
But  it  had  grown  upon  a  larger  life 
Which  tore  its  roots  asunder.     We  rebelled— 
The  larger  life  subdued  us.    Yet  we  are  wed; 
For  we  shall  carry  each  the  pressure  deep 
Of  the  other's  soul.    I  soon  shall  leave  the  shore. 
The  winds  to-night  will  bear  me  far  away. 
My  lord,  farewell ! 

lie  did  not  say  "Farewell." 
But  neither  knew  that  he  was  silent.    She, 
For  one  long  moment,  moved  not.    They  knew  nought 
Save  that  they  parted  ;  for  their  mutual  gaze 
As  with  their  souls'  full  speech  forbade  their  hands 
To  seek  each  other— those  oft-clasping  hands 
Which  had  a  memory  of  their  own,  and  went 
Widowed  of  one  dear  touch  for  evermore. 
At  last  she  turned  and  with  swift  movement  passed, 
Beckoning  to  Iliuda,  who  was  bending  low 
And  lingered  still  to  wai-h  her  shells,  but  aoou 


THE  SPAITISH  GYPSY.  255 

Leaping  and  scampering  followed,  while  her  Queen 
Mounted  the  steps  again  and  took  her  place, 
Which  Juau  rendered  silently. 

And  now 
The  press  upon  the  quay  was  thinned;  the  ground 
Was  cleared  of  cnmheriug  heaps,  the  eager  shouts 
Ilad  sunk,  and  left  a  murmur  more  restrained 
By  common  purpose.    All  the  men  ashore 
Were  gathering  into  ordered  companies, 
And  with  less  clamor  tilled  the  waiting  boats, 
As  if  the  speaking  light  commanded  them 
To  quiet  speed :  for  now  the  farewell  glow 
Was  on  the  topmost  heights,  and  where  far  ships 
Were  southward  tending,  tranquil,  slow,  and  while 
Upon  the  luminous  meadow  toward  the  verge. 
The  quay  was  in  still  shadow,  and  the  boats 
Went  sombrely  upon  the  sombre  waves. 
Fedalma  watched  again ;  but  now  her  gaze 
Takes  in  the  eastward  bay,  where  that  small  l)ark 
Which  held  the  fisher-boy  floats  weightier 
With  one  more  life,  that  rests  upon  the  oar 
Watching  with  her.    He  would  not  go  away 
Till  she  was  gone;  he  would  not  turn  his  face 
Aw.ay  from  her  at  jjarting:  but  the  sea 
Should  widen  slowly  'Lwixt  their  seeking  eyes. 

The  time  was  coming.    Nadar  had  approached. 

Was  the  Queen  ready?    Would  she  follow  now 

Her  father's  body  ?    For  the  largest  boat 

AV'as  waiting  at  the  quay,  the  last  strong  band 

Of  Zincali  had  ranged  themselves  in  lines 

To  guard  her  passage  and  to  follow  her. 

"Yes,  I  am  ready;"  and  with  action  prompt 

They  cast  aside  the  Gypsy's  wandering  tomb. 

And  fenced  the  space  from  curious  Moors  who  pressed 

To  see  Chief  Zarca's  coffin  as  it  lay. 

They  raised  it  slowly,  holding  it  aloft 

On  shoulders  proud  to  bear  the  heavy  load. 

Bound  on  the  coffin  lay  the  chieftain's  arms. 

His  Gypsy  garments  and  his  coat  of  mail. 

Fedalma  saw  the  burden  lifted  higli. 

And  then  descending  followed.    All  was  still. 

The  Moors  aloof  could  hear  the  struggling  steps 

Beneath  the  lowered  burden  at  the  boat— 

Tlie  struggling  calls  subdued,  till  safe  released 

It  lay  within,  the  space  aroaud  it  filled 

By  black-haired  Gypsies.    Then  Fedalma  stepped 

From  off  the  shore  and  saw  it  flee  away — 

The  land  that  bred  her  helping  the  resolve 

Which  exiled  her  forever. 

It  was  uight 
Before  the  ships  weighed  anchor  and  gave  sail: 
Fresh  Night  emergent  in  her  clearness,  lit 
By  the  large  crescent  moon,  with  Hesperus, 
And  those  great  stars  that  lead  the  eager  host 
Fedalma  stood  and  watched  the  little  bark 
Lying  jel-black  upon  moon-whitened  waves. 


25G  THE   SPiVNISU  GYPSY. 

Silva  was  stauclin^  too.    lie  too  divined 
A  steadfast  form  that  lu^ld  liiiti  witli  its  tlioiight, 
And  eyes  that  soiiglil  liini  vanisliin-;:  he  saw 
The  waters  widen  slowly,  till  at  last 
Straining  he  gazed,  and  knew  not  if  he  gazed 
On  aught  but  blackness  overhung  by  stars. 


NOTES  TO  "THE  SPANISH  GYPSY." 


P,  122.     Cactus. 

The  Indian  flg  {Opuntia),  like  the  other  Cactaccce,  is  believed  to  have  been  in- 
troduced into  Europe  from  South  America;  but  every  one  who  has  been  in  the 
south  of  Spain  will  understand  why  the  anachronism  has  been  chosen. 

P.  182.    Marranos. 

The  name  given  by  the  Spanish  Jews  to  the  multitudes  of  their  race  converted 
to  Christianity  at  the  end  of  the  fourteenth  century  and  beginning  of  the  fifteenth. 
The  lofty  derivation  from  Maran-atha,  the  Lord  conieth,  seems  hardly  called  for, 
seeing  that  niarrano  is  Spanish  tor pir/.  The  "old  Christians"  learned  to  use  the 
word  as  a  term  of  contempt  for  the  "  new  Christians,"  or  converted  Jews  and  their 
descendants ;  but  not  too  monotonously,  for  they  often  interchanged  it  with  the 
fine  old  crusted  opprobrium  of  the  name  Jew.  Still,  many  Marranos  held  the  high- 
est secular  and  ecclesiastical  prizes  in  Spain,  and  were  respected  accordingly. 

P.  193.     Celestial  Baron. 

The  Spaniards  conceived  their  patron  Santiago  (St.  James),  the  great  captain  of 
their  armies,  as  a  knight  and  baron :  to  them,  the  incongruity  would  have  lain  in 
conceiving  him  simply  as  a  Galilean  fisherman.  And  their  legend  was  adopted 
with  respect  by  devout  mediroval  minds  generally.  Dante,  in  an  elevated  passage 
of  the  Paradiso—the  memorable  opening  of  Canto  xxv.— chooses  to  introduce  the 
Apostle  James  as  il  barone. 

"  Indi  si  mosse  un  lume  verso  noi 
Di  quella  schiera,  ond  'usci  la  primizia 
Che  lascio  Cristo  dc'  vicari  suoi. 
E  la  mia  Donna  plena  de  letizia 
Mi  disse :  Mira,  mira,  ecco  '1  barone 
Per  cui  laggiu  si  visita  Galizia." 

P.  194.     The  Seven  Parts. 

Las  Siete  Partidas  (The  Seven  Parts)  is  the  title  given  to  the  code  of  laws  com- 
piled under  Alfonso  the  Tenth,  who  reigned  in  the  latter  half  of  the  thirteenth 
century — 1252-12S4.  The  passage  in  the  text  is  translated  from  Partida  IP,  Ley  II. 
The  whole  preamble  is  worth  citing  in  its  old  Spanish : 

"  Como  debcn  ser  cacogidos  los  cahalleros.'" 

"  Autiguamieutc  para  facer  cahalleros  escogieu  de  los  veuadores  de  rnoute,  que 

20  M 


258  NOTES  TO    "THE  SPANISH  GYPSY." 

eon  homes  que  snfrcn  grandc  laceria,  et  carpinteros,  et  fcrrcros,  ct  pedreros,  porqiic 
nsan  mucho  a  ferir  et  sou  fucrtc  de  maiios ;  et  otiosi  de  los  cuniiceros,  por  razoii 
que  usan  matar  las  cosas  vivas  ct  esparcer  la  saiif^ie  dellas ;  el  ami  cataban  otra 
cosa  eu  escogiendolos  que  fueseu  bieu  facciouadas  de  membros  paia  scr  leciog,  et 
fucrtes  et  li^eros.  Et  esta  manera  de  escoger  usarou  los  autiguos  muy  grant  ti- 
cmpo;  mas  porqnc  despues  vieroii  muchas  vegadasque  estos  atales  iion  habiendo 
veigiienza  olvidabau  todas  estas  cosas  sobredichas,  et  en  logar  de  vincer  sus  eoe- 
migos  venciensc  ellos,  tovierou  por  bien  los  sabidores  destas  cosas  que  catasen 
homes  pai-a  esto  que  hobiesen  uaturalmiente  en  si  vergiienza.  Et  sobresto  dixo 
nu  sabio  que  liable  nombre  Vkgeoio  que  fiibl6  de  la  orden  de  caballeria,  que  la  ver- 
giienza vieda  al  caballero  que  nou  fuya  de  la  batalla,  et  por  ende  ella  le  face  ser 
vencedor;  ca  mucho  tovieron  que  era  niejor  el  homo  flaco  et  sofridor,  que  el  fuerte 
et  ligero  para  foir.  Et  por  esto  sobre  todas  las  otras  cosas  cataron  que  fueseu 
homes  porque  se  guardasen  de  facer  cosa  por  que  podiesen  caer  en  vergueuza  ;  et 
porque  estos  fueron  escogidos  de  buenos  logares  et  algo,  que  qiiiere  tanto  decir  en 
lenguage  de  Espaiia  como  bien,  por  eso  los  llamaron  fijosdalgo,  que  mucstra  ataiito 
como  fijos  de  bien.  Et  eu  algunos  otros  logares  los  llamaron  gentiles,  et  tomaron 
este  nombre  de  geutileza  que  muestra  ataiito  como  noblcza  de  boudat,  porqne  los 
gentiles  fueron  nobles  homes  et  buenos,  et  vevieron  mas  ordenadamente  que  las 
otras  gentes.  Et  esta  geutileza  avieue  eu  tres  maueras ;  la  una  por  liuage,  la  se- 
guuda  por  saber,  et  la  tercera  por  boudat  de  armas  et  de  costumbres  et  de  ma- 
ueras. Et  comoquier  que  estos  que  la  ganan  por  su  sabidoria  6  por  su  boudat,  sou 
con  dcrecho  llamados  uobles  et  gentiles,  mayormieute  lo  son  aquellos  que  la  han 
por  linage  autiguamieute,  et  faceu  buena  vida  porque  les  viene  de  luefie  como  por 
heredat ;  et  por  eude  son  mas  encargados  de  facer  bieu  et  guardarse  de  yerro  ct  de 
malestanza;  ca  nou  tan  solamieute  quando  lo  faceu  resciben  dano  ct  vergiienza 
ellos  mismos,  ma  auu  aquellos  ondc  ellos  vieueu." 


BROTHER  JACOB 


BROTHER  JACOB. 

"  Trompeurs,  c'est  povir  vous  que  j'ecris,  attendez-vous  a  la  pareille." 

La  Fontaine. 

Chapter  I. 

'  Among  the  many  fatalities  attending  the  bloom  of 
young  desire,  that  of  blindly  taking  to  the  confec- 
tionery line  has  not,  perhaps,  been  sufficiently  consid- 
ered. How  is  the  son  of  a  British  yeoman,  who  has 
been  fed  principally  on  salt  pork  and  yeast  dumplings, 
to  know  that  there  is  satiety  for  the  human  stomach 
even  in  a  paradise  of  glass  jars  full  of  sugared  almonds 
and  pink  lozenges,  and  that  the  tedium  of  life  can 
reach  a  pitch  where  plum -buns  at  discretion  cease  to 
offer  the  slightest  enticement  ?  Or  how,  at  the  tender 
age  when  a  confectioner  seems  to  him  a  very  prince 
whom  all  the  world  must  envy  —  who  breakfasts  on 
macaroons,  dines  on  meringues,  sups  on  twelfth-cake,  and 
fills  up  the  intermediate  hours  with  sugar -candy  or 
peppermint — how  is  he  to  foresee  the  day  of  sad  wis- 
dom, when  he  will  discern  that  the  confectioner's  call- 
ing is  not  socially  influential  or  favorable  to  a  soaring 
ambition  ?  I  have  known  a  man  who  turned  out  to 
have  a  metaphysical  genius,  incautiously,  in  the  period 
of  youthful  buoyancy,  commence  his  career  as  a  dan- 
cing master;  and  you  may  imagine  the  use  that  was 
made  of  this   initial  mistake  by  opponents  who  felt 


2G2  BKOTUEE   JACOB. 

themselves  bound  to  warn  the  public  against  his  doc- 
trine of  the  Inconceivable.  lie  couldn't  give  up  his 
dancing  lessons,  because  he  made  his  bread  by  them, 
and  metaphysics  would  not  have  found  him  in  so  much 
as  salt  to  his  bread.  It  was  nearly  the  same  with 
Mr.  David  Faux  and  the  confectionery  business.  His 
uncle,  the  butler  at  the  great  house  close  by  Brigford, 
had  made  a  pet  of  him  in  his  early  boyhood,  and  it  was 
on  a  visit  to  this  uncle  that  the  confectioners'  shops  in 
that  brilliant  town  had,  on  a  single  day,  fired  his  tender 
imagination.  He  carried  home  the  pleasing  illusion  that 
a  confectioner  must  be  at  once  the  happiest  and  the 
foremost  of  men,  since  the  things  he  made  were  not 
only  the  most  beautiful  to  behold,  but  the  very  best 
eating,  and  such  as  the  Lord  Mayor  must  always  order 
largely  for  his  private  recreation ;  so  that  when  his 
father  declared  he  must  be  put  to  a  trade,  David  chose 
his  line  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  and,  with  a  rash- 
ness inspired  by  a  sweet  tooth,  wedded  himself  irrevo- 
cably to  confectionery.  Soon,  however,  the  tooth  lost 
its  relish  and  fell  into  blank  indifference,  and  all  the 
while  his  mind  expanded,  his  ambition  took  new  shapes, 
which  could  hardly  be  satisfied  within  the  sphere  his 
youthful  ardor  had  chosen.  But  what  was  he  to  do  ? 
He  was  a  young  man  of  much  mental  activity,  and, 
above  all,  gifted  with  a  spirit  of  contrivance  ;  but  then 
his  faculties  would  not  tell  with  great  effect  in  any  oth- 
er medium  than  that  of  candied  sugars,  conserves,  and 
pastry.  Say  what  you  will  about  the  identity  of  the 
reasoning  process  in  all  branches  of  thought,  or  about 
the  advantage  of  coming  to  subjects  with  a  fresh  mind, 
the  adjustment  of  butter  to  flour,  and  of  heat  to  pas- 


BEOTHEE   JACOB.  203 

try,  is  not  the  best  preparation  for  the  oflBce  of  Prime- 
minister  ;  besides,  in  the  present  imperfectly  organized 
state  of  society  there  are  social  barriers.  David  could 
invent  delightful  things  in  the  way  of  drop-cakes,  and 
he  had  the  widest  views  of  the  "  rock  "  department ;  but 
in  other  directions  he  certainly  felt  hampered  by  the 
want  of  knowledge  and  practical  skill ;  and  the  world 
is  so  inconveniently  constituted,  that  the  vague  con- 
sciousness of  being  a  fine  fellow  is  no  guarantee  of  suc- 
cess in  any  line  of  business. 

This  difficulty  pressed  with  some  severity  on  Mr. 
David  Faux  even  before  his  apprenticeship  was  ended. 
His  soul  swelled  with  an  impatient  sense  that  he  ought 
to  become  something  very  remarkable  —  that  it  was 
quite  out  of  the  question  for  him  to  put  up  with  a  nar- 
row lot  as  other  men  did :  he  scorned  the  idea  that  he 
could  accept  an  average.  He  was  sure  there  was  noth- 
ing average  about  him :  even  such  a  person  as  Mrs. 
Tibbits,  the  washer-woman,  perceived  it,  and  probably 
had  a  preference  for  his  linen.  At  that  particular  peri- 
od he  was  weighing  out  gingerbread-nuts ;  but  such  an 
anomaly  could  not  continue.  No  position  could  be 
suited  to  Mr.  David  Faux  that  was  not  in  tlie  hia:hest 
degree  easy  to  the  flesh  and  flattering  to  the  spirit.  If 
he  had  fallen  on  the  present  times,  and  enjoyed  the  ad- 
vantages of  a  Mechanics'  Institute,  he  would  certainly 
have  taken  to  literature  and  have  written  reviews ;  but 
his  education  had  not  been  liberal.  He  had  read  some 
novels  from  the  adjoining  circulating  library,  and  had 
even  bought  the  story  of  "  Inkle  and  Yarico,"  which 
had  made  him  feel  very  sorry  for  poor  Mr.  Inkle,  so 
that  his  ideas  might  not  have  been  below  the  mark  of 


264  BKOTFIKIJ   JACOB. 

tliG  literary  calling;  bnt  liis  spelling  and  diction  were 
too  unconventional. 

When  a  man  is  not  adequately  appreciated  or  com- 
fortably placed  in  his  own  country,  his  thoughts  natu- 
rally turn  towards  foreign  climes;  and  David's  imagi- 
nation circled  round  and  round  the  utmost  limits  of  his 
geographical  knowledge  in  search  of  a  country  where 
a  young  gentleman  of  pasty  visage,  lipless  mouth,  and 
stumpy  hair,  would  be  likely  to  be  received  with  the 
hospitable  enthusiasm  which  he  had  a  right  to  expect. 
Having  a  general  idea  of  America  as  a  country  where 
the  population  was  chiefly  black,  it  appeared  to  him  the 
most  propitious  destination  for  an  emigrant  who,  to 
begin  with,  had  the  broad  and  easily  recognizable  merit 
of  whiteness ;  and  this  idea  gradually  took  such  strong 
possession  of  him  that  Satan  seized  the  opportunity  of 
suggesting  to  him  that  he  might  emigrate  under  easier 
circumstances  if  he  supplied  himself  with  a  little  money 
from  his  master's  till.  But  that  evil  spirit,  whose  un- 
derstanding, I  am  convinced,  has  been  much  overrated, 
quite  wasted  his  time  on  this  occasion.  David  would 
certainly  have  liked  well  to  have  some  of  his  master's 
money  in  his  pocket,  if  he  had  been  sure  his  master 
would  have  been  the  only  man  to  suffer  for  it ;  but  he 
was  a  cautious  youth,  and  quite  determined  to  run  no 
risks  on  his  own  account.  So  he  stayed  out  his  appren- 
ticeship, and  committed  no  act  of  dishonesty  that  was 
at  all  likely  to  be  discovered,  reserving  his  plan  of  emi- 
gration for  a  future  opportunity.  And  the  circum- 
stances under  which  he  carried  it  out  were  in  this  wise. 
Having  been  at  home  a  week  or  two  partaking  of  the 
family  beans,  he  had  used  his  leisure  in  ascertaining  a 


BEOTHEK   JACOB.  265. 

fact  which  was  of  considerable  importance  to  him,  name- 
ly, that  his  mother  had  a  small  sum  in  guineas  painfully 
saved  from  her  maiden  perquisites,  and  kept  in  the  cor- 
ner of  a  drawer  where  her  baby  linen  had  reposed  for 
the  last  twenty  years  —  ever  since  her  son  David  had 
taken  to  his  feet,  with  a  slight  promise  of  bow-legs, 
which  had  not  been  altogether  unfulfilled.  Mr.  Faux, 
senior,  had  told  his  son  very  frankly  that  he  must  not 
look  to  being  set  up  in  business  by  him:  with  seven 
sons,  and  one  of  them  a  very  healthy  and  well-devel- 
oped idiot,  who  consumed  a  dumpling  about  eight  inches 
in  diameter  every  day,  it  was  pretty  well  if  they  got  a 
hundred  apiece  at  his  death.  Under  these  circumstances 
what  was  David  to  do  \  It  was  certainly  hard  that  he 
should  take  his  mother's  money  ;  but  he  saw  no  other 
ready  means  of  getting  any,  and  it  was  not  to  be  ex- 
pected that  a  young  man  of  his  merit  should  put  up 
with  inconveniences  that  could  be  avoided.  Besides,  it 
is  not  robbery  to  take  p4-operty  belonging  to  your  moth- 
er ;  she  doesn't  prosecute  you.  And  David  was  very 
well  behaved  to  his  mother ;  he  comforted  her  by  speak- 
ing highly  of  himself  to  her,  and  assuring  her  that  he 
never  fell  into  the  vices  he  saw  practised  by  other 
youths  of  his  own  age,  and  that  he  was  particularly 
fond  of  honesty.  If  his  mother  would  have  given  him 
her  twenty  guineas  as  a  reward  of  this  noble  disposition 
he  really  would  not  have  stolen  them  from  her,  and  it 
would  have  been  more  agreeable  to  his  feelings.  IS'ev- 
ertheless,  to  an  active  mind  like  David's,  ingenuity  is 
not  without  its  pleasures.  It  was  rather  an  interesting 
occupation  to  become  stealthily  acquainted  with   the 

wards  of  his  mother's  simple  key  (not  in  the  least  like 
26*  M* 


■  266  BKOTHER   JACOB. 

Chnbb's  patent),  cind  to  get  one  that  would  do  its  work 
equally  well,  and  also  to  arrange  a  little  drama  by  which 
he  would  escape  suspicion,  and  run  no  risk  of  forfeiting 
the  prospective  hundred  at  his  father's  death,  which 
would  be  convenient  in  the  improbable  case  of  his  not 
making  a  large  fortune  in  the  "  Indies." 

First,  he  spoke  freely  of  his  intention  to  start  shortly 
for  Liverpool, and  take  ship  for  America:  a  resolution 
which  cost  his  good  mother  some  pain,  for,  after  Jacob 
the  idiot,  there  was  not  one  of  her  sons  to  whom  her 
heart  clung  more  than  to  her  youngest-born,  David. 
Next,  it  appeared  to  him  that  Sunday  afternoon,  when 
everybody  was  gone  to  church,  except  Jacob  and  the 
cow-boy,  was  so  singularly  favorable  an  opportunity  for 
sons  who  wanted  to  appropriate  their  mother's  guineas, 
that  he  half  thought  it  must  have  been  kindly  intended 
by  Providence  for  such  purposes.  Especially  the  third 
Sunday  in  Lent,  because  Jacob  had  been  out  on  one  of 
his  occasional  wanderings*for  the  last  two  days;  and 
David,  being  a  timid  young  man,  had  a  considerable 
dread  and  hatred  of  Jacob,  as  of  a  large  personage  who 
went  about  habitually  with  a  pitchfork  in  his  hand. 

ISTothing  could  be  easier,  then,  than  for  David  on  this 
Sunday  afternoon  to  decline  going  to  church  on  the 
ground  that  he  was  going  to  tea  at  Mr.  Lunn's,  whose 
pretty  daughter  Sally  had  been  an  early  flame  of  his, 
and,  when  the  church-goers  were  at  a  safe  distance,  to 
abstract  the  guineas  from  their  wooden  box  and  slip 
them  into  a  small  canvas  bag — nothing  easier  than  to 
call  to  the  cow-boy  that  he  was  going,  and  tell  him  to 
keep  an  eye  on  the  house  for  fear  of  Sunday  tramps. 
David  thought  it  would  be  easy,  too,  to  get  to  a  small 


BROTH EK   JACOB.  267 

thicket,  and  bury  his  bag  in  a  hole  he  had  ah'eady  made 
and  covered  up  under  the  roots  of  an  old  hollow  ash ; 
and  he  had,  in  fact,  found  the  hole  without  a  moment's 
difficulty,  had  uncovered  it,  and  was  about  gently  to  drop 
the  bag  into  it,  when  the  sound  of  a  large  body  rustling 
towards  him  with  something  like  a  bellow  was  such  a 
surprise  to  David,  who,  as  a  gentleman  gifted  with  much 
contrivance,  was  naturally  only  prepared  for  what  he 
expected,  that  instead  of  dropping  the  bag  gently,  he 
let  it  fall  so  as  to  make  it  untwist  and  vomit  forth  the 
shining  guineas.  In  the  same  moment  he  looked  up 
and  saw  his  dear  brother  Jacob  close  upon  him,  holding 
the  pitchfork  so  that  the  bright  smooth  prongs  were  a 
yard  in  advance  of  his  own  body,  and  about  a  foot  off 
David's.  (A  learned  friend,  to  whom  I  once  narrated  this 
history,  observed  that  it  was  David's  guilt  which  made 
these  prongs  formidable,  and  that  the  mens  nil  conscia 
sibi  strips  a  pitchfork  of  all  terrors.  I  thought  this  idea 
so  valuable  that  I  obtained  his  leave  to  use  it,  on  con- 
dition of  suppressing  his  name.)  Nevertheless,  David 
did  not  entirely  lose  his  presence  of  mind;  for  in  that 
case  he  would  have  sunk  on  the  earth  or  started  back- 
ward ;  whereas  he  kept  his  ground  and  smiled  at  Jacob, 
who  nodded  his  head  up  and  down  and  said,  "  Iloich, 
Zavy  !"  in  a  painfully  equivocal  manner.  David's  heart 
was  beating  audibly,  and  if  he  had  had  any  lips  they 
would  have  been  pale ;  but  his  mental  activity,  instead 
of  being  paralyzed,  was  stimulated ;  while  he  was  in- 
wardly praying  (he  always  prayed  Avhen  he  was  much 
frightened) — "  Oh,  save  me  this  once,  and  I'll  never  get 
into  danger  again !" — he  was  thrusting  his  hand  into  his 
pocket  in  search  of  a  box  of  yellow  lozenges,  which  he 


2G8  BKOTUEB    JACOB. 

had  brought  with  him  from  Brigford  among  other  deli- 
cacies of  the  same  portable  kind,  as  a  means  of  concili- 
ating proud  beauty,  and  more  particularly  the  beauty  of 
Miss  Sarah  Lunn.  Not  one  of  these  delicacies  had  he 
ever  offered  to  poor  Jacob,  for  David  was  not  a  young 
man  to  waste  his  jujubes  and  barley- sugar  in  giving 
pleasure  to  people  from  whom  he  expected  nothing. 
But  an  idiot  with  equivocal  intentions  and  a  pitchfork 
is  as  well  worth  flattering  and  cajoling  as  if  he  were 
Louis  Napoleon.  So  David,  with  a  promptitude  equal 
to  the  occasion,  drew  out  his  box  of  yellow  lozenges, 
lifted  the  lid,  and  performed  a  pantomime  with  his 
mouth  and  fingers  which  was  meant  to  imply  that  he 
was  deliofhted  to  see  his  dear  brother  Jacob,  and  seized 
the  opportunity  of  making  him  a  small  present  which 
he  would  find  particularly  agreeable  to  the  taste.  Jacob, 
you  understand,  was  not  an  intense  idiot,  but  within  a 
certain  limited  range  knew  how  to  choose  the  good 
and  reject  the  evil.  He  took  one  lozenge,  by  way  of 
test,  and  sucked  it  as  if  he  had  been  a  philosopher;  then 
in  as  great  an  ecstasy  at  its  new  and  complex  savor  as 
Caliban  at  the  taste  of  Trinculo's  wine,  chuckled  and 
stroked  this  suddenly  beneficent  brother,  and  held  out 
his  hand  for  more ;  for,  except  in  fits  of  anger,  Jacob 
was  not  ferocious  or  needlessly  predatory.  David's 
courage  half  returned,  and  he  left  off  praying ;  pouring 
a  dozen  lozenges  into  Jacob's  palm,  and  trying  to  look 
very  fond  of  him.  He  congratulated  himself  that  he 
had  formed  the  plan  of  going  to  see  Miss  Sally  Lunn 
this  afternoon,  and  that,  as  a  consequence,  he  had  brought 
with  him  these  propitiatory  delicacies.  He  was  certain- 
ly a  lucky  fellow ;  indeed  it  was  always  likely  Provi- 


BEOTHEK  JACOB.  209 

dence  should  be  fonder  of  him  than  of  other  apprentices, 
and  since  he  was  to  be  interrupted,  why,  an  idiot  was 
preferable  to  any  other  sort  of  witness.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  life  David  thought  he  saw  the  advantage  of 
idiots. 

As  for  Jacob,  he  had  thrust  his  pitchfork  into  the 
ground,  and  had  thrown  himself  down  beside  it,  in  thor- 
ough abandonment  to  the  unprecedented  pleasure  of 
having  five  lozenges  in  his  mouth  at  once,  blinking 
meanwhile,  and  making  inarticulate  sounds  of  gustative 
content.  He  had  not  yet  given  any  sign  of  noticing 
the  guineas,  but  in  seating  himself  he  had  laid  his  broad 
right  hand  on  them,  and  unconsciously  kept  it  in  that 
position,  absorbed  in  the  sensations  of  his  palate.  If  he 
could  only  be  kept  so  occupied  with  the  lozenges  as  not 
to  see  the  guineas  before  David  could  manage  to  cover 
them  !  That  was  David's  best  hope  of  safety,  for  Jacob 
knew  his  mother's  guineas ;  it  had  been  part  of  their 
common  experience  as  boys  to  be  allowed  to  look  at 
these  handsome  coins,  and  rattle  them  in  their  box  on 
high  days  and  holidays,  and  among  all  Jacob's  narrow 
experiences  as  to  money,  this  was  likely  to  be  the  most 
memorable. 

"Here,  Jacob,"  said  David,  in  an  insinuating  tone, 
handing  the  box  to  him,  "  I'll  give  'em  all  to  you.  Kun ! 
— make  haste ! — else  somebody  '11  come  and  take  'era." 

David,  not  liaving  studied  the  psychology  of  idiots, 
was  not  aware  that  they  are  not  to  be  wrought  upon  by 
imaginative  fears.  Jacob  took  the  box  with  his  left 
hand,  but  saw  no  necessity  for  running  away.  Was 
ever  a  promising  young  man,  wishing  to  lay  the  foun- 
dation  of  his  -fortune  by  appropriating  his   mother's 


270  BROTUER   JACOB. 

guineas,  obstructed  by  such  a  day-mare  as  this  ?  But 
the  moment  must  come  when  Jacob  would  move  his 
rii>;ht  hand  to  draw  off  the  lid  of  the  tin  box,  and  then 
David  would  sweep  the  guineas  into  the  hole  with  the 
utmost  address  and  swiftness,  and  immediately  seat  him- 
self upon  them.  Ah,  no  !  It's  of  no  use  to  have  fore- 
sight when  you  are  dealing  with  an  idiot ;  he  is  not  to 
be  calculated  upon.  Jacob's  right  hand  was  given  to 
vague  clutching  and  throwing;  it  suddenly  clutched  the 
guineas  as  if  they  had  been  so  many  pebbles,  and  was 
raised  in  an  attitude  which  promised  to  scatter  them 
like  seed  over  a  distant  bramble,  when,  from  some 
prompting  or  other — probably  of  an  unwonted  sensa- 
tion— it  paused,  descended  to  Jacob's  knee,  and  opened 
slowly  under  the  inspection  of  Jacob's  dull  eyes.  David 
began  to  pray  again,  but  immediately  desisted — another 
resource  having  occurred  to  him. 

"Mother!  zinnies!"  exclaimed  the  innocent  Jacob. 
Then,  looking  at  David,  he  said,  interrogatively,  "  Box  ?" 

"Hush!  hush!"  said  David,  summoning  all  his  in- 
genuity in  this  severe  strait.  "  See,  Jacob  !"  He  took 
the  tin  box  from  his  brother's  hand,  and  emptied  it  of 
the  lozenges,  returning  half  of  them  to  Jacob,  but  se- 
cretly keeping  the  rest  in  his  own  hand.  Then  he  held 
out  the  empty  box,  and  said,  "  Here's  the  box,  Jacob — 
the  box  for  the  guineas,"  gently  sweeping  them  from 
Jacob's  palm  into  the  box. 

This  procedure  was  not  objectionable  to  Jacob ;  on 
the  contrary,  the  guineas  clinked  so  pleasantly  as  they 
fell  that  he  wished  for  a  repetition  of  the  sound,  and 
snatching  the  box,  began  to  rattle  it  very  gleefully. 
David,  seizing  the  opportunity,  deposited  his  reserve  of 


BKOTHEK   JACOB.  271 

lozenges  in  the  ground  and  hastily  swept  some  earth 
over  them.  "Look,  Jacob,"  he  said  at  last.  Jacob 
paused  from  his  clinking  and  looked  into  the  hole, 
while  David  began  to  scratch  away  the  earth,  as  if  in 
doubtful  expectation.  When  the  lozenges  were  laid 
bare,  he  took  them  out  one  by  one,  and  gave  them  to 
Jacob. 

"  Hush !"  he  said,  in  a  loud  whisper ;  "  tell  nobody 
— all  for  Jacob  —  hush-sh-sh!  Put  guineas  in  the 
hole — they'll  come  out  like  this."  To  make  the  lesson 
more  complete,  he  took  a  guinea,  and  lowering  it  into 
the  hole,  said,  "  Put  in  ^o."  Then,  as  he  took  the  last 
lozenge  out,  he  said, "  Come  out  5C>,"  and  put  the  loz- 
enge into  Jacob's  hospitable  mouth. 

Jacob  turned  his  head  on  one  side,  looked  first  at  his 
brother  and  then  at  the  hole,  like  a  reflective  monkey, 
and  finally  laid  the  box  of  guineas  in  the  hole  with 
much  decision.  David  made  haste  to  add  every  one  of 
the  stray  coins,  put  ou  the  lid,  and  covered  it  well  with 
earth,  saying,  in  his  most  coaxing  tone, 

"  Take  'm  out  to  -  morrow,  Jacob ;  all  for  Jacob ! 
Hush-sh-sh !" 

Jacob,  to  whom  this  once  indifferent  brother  had  all 
at  once  become  a  sort  of  sweet-tasted  Fetich,  stroked 
David's  best  coat  with  his  adhesive  fingers,  and  then 
hugged  him  with  an  accompaniment  of  that  mingled 
chuckling  and  gurgling  by  which  he  was  accustomed 
to  express  the  milder  passions.  But  if  he  had  chosen 
to  bite  a  small  morsel  out  of  his  beneficent  brother's 
cheek,  David  would  have  been  obliged  to  bear  it. 

And  here  I  must  pause  to  point  out  to  you  the  short- 
Bightedness   of   human    contrivance.      This    ingenious 


272 


BliOTlIEK   JACOB. 


young  man,  Mr.  David  Faux,  thought  lie  liad  achieved 
a  triumph  of  cunning  when  he  had  associated  himself 
in  his  brother's  rudimentary' mind  with  the  flavor  of 
yellow  lozenges.  But  he  had  yet  to  learn  that  it  is  a 
dreadful  thing  to  make  an  idiot  fond  of  you,  when  you 
yourself  are  not  of  an  affectionate  disposition  ;  espe- 
cially an  idiot  with  a  pitchfork  —  obviously  a  difficult 
friend  to  shake  off  by  rough  usage. 

It  may  seem  to  you  rather  a  blundering  contrivance 
for  a  clever  young  man  to  bury  the  guineas.  But  if 
everything  had  turned  out  as  David  had  calculated, 
you  would  have  seen  that  his  plan  was  worthy  of  his 
talents.  The  guineas  would  have  lain  safely  in  the 
earth  while  the  theft  was  discovered,  and  David,  with 
the  calm  of  conscious  innocence,  would  have  lingered 
at  home,  reluctant  to  say  good-bye  to  his  dear  mother 
while  she  was  in  grief  about  her  guineas ;  till,  at 
length,  on  the  eve  of  his  departure,  he  would  have  dis- 
interred them  in  the  strictest  privacy,  and  carried  them 
on  his  own  person  without  inconvenience.  But  David, 
you  perceive,  had  reckoned  without  his  host,  or,  to 
speak  more  precisely,  without  his  idiot  brother  —  an 
item  of  so  uncertain  and  fluctuating  a  character  that  I 
doubt  whether  he  would  not  have  puzzled  the  astute 
heroes  of  M.  De  Balzac,  whose  foresight  is  so  remarka- 
bly at  home  in  the  future. 

It  was  clear  to  David  now  that  he  had  only  one  alter- 
native before  him — he  must  either  renounce  the  guin- 
eas, by  quietly  putting  them  back  in  his  mother's  draw- 
er (a  course  not  unattended  with  difficulty),  or  he  must 
leave  more  than  a  suspicion  behind  him,  by  departing 
early  next   morning  without  giving  notice,  and  with 


BROTHER   JACOB.  273 

the  guineas  in  his  pocket.  For  if  he  gave  notice  that 
he  was  going,  his  mother,  he  knew,  would  insist  on 
fetching  from  her  box  or  guineas  the  three  she  had 
always  promised  him  as  his  share ;  indeed,  in  his  origi- 
nal plan  he  iiad  counted  on  this  as  a  means  by  which 
the  theft  would  be  discovered  under  circumstances  that 
would  themselves  speak  for  his  innocence;  but  now, as 
I  need  hardly  explain  to  you,  that  well-combined  plan 
was  completely  frustrated.  Even  if  David  could  have 
bribed  Jacob  with  perpetual  lozenges,  an  idiot's  secrecy 
is  itself  betrayal.  He  dared  not  even  go  to  tea  at  Mr. 
Lunn's,  for  in  that  case  he  would  have  lost  sight  of 
Jacob,  who,  in  his  impatience  for  the  crop  of  lozenges, 
might  scratch  up  the  box  again  while  he  was  absent, 
and  carry  it  home — depriving  him  at  once  of  reputation 
and  guineas.  No !  he  must  think  of  nothing  all  the 
rest  of  this  day  but  of  coaxing  Jacob  and  keeping  him 
out  of  mischief.  It  was  a  fatiguing  and  anxious  even- 
ing to  David ;  nevertheless,  he  dared  not  go  to  sleep 
without  tying  a  piece  of  string  to  his  thumb  and  great 
toe,  to  secure  his  frequent  waking ;  for  he  meant  to 
be  up  with  the  first  peep  of  dawn,  and  be  far  out  of 
reach  before  breakfast-time.  His  father,  he  thought, 
would  certainly  cut  him  off  with  a  shilling ;  but  what 
then  ?  Such  a  striking  young  man  as  he  would  be  sure 
to  be  well  received  in  the  West  Indies :  in  foreign 
countries  there  are  always  openings — even  for  cats. 
It  was  probable  that  some  Princess  Yarico  would  want 
him  to  marry  her,  and  make  him  presents  of  very  large 
jewels  beforehand,  after  which  he  needn't  marry  her 
unless  he  liked.  David  had  made  up  his  mind  not  to 
steal  any  more,  even  from  people  who  were  fond  of 


274  BROTHER   JACOB. 

liiiii ;  it  was  an  unpleasant  way  of  making  your  fortune 
in  a  world  where  you  were  likely  to  be  surprised  in  the 
act  by  brothers.  Such  alarms  did  not  agree  with  Da- 
vid's constitution,  and  he  had  felt  so  much  nausea  this 
evening  that  I  have  no  doubt  his  liver  was  affected. 
Besides,  he  would  have  been  greatly  hurt  not  to  be 
thought  well  of  in  the  world;  he  always  meant  to 
make  a  figure,  and  be  thought  worthy  of  the  best  seats 
and  the  best  morsels. 

Ruminating  to  this  effect  on  the  brilliant  future  in 
reserve  for  him,  David,  by  the  help  of  his  check-string, 
kept  himself  on  the  alert  to  seize  the  time  of  earliest 
dawn  for  his  rising  and  departure.  His  brothers,  of 
course,  were  early  risers,  but  he  should  anticipate  them 
by  at  least  an  hour  and  a  half,  and  the  little  room 
which  he  had  to  himself  as  only  an  occasional  visitor, 
had  its  window  over  the  horse-block,  so  that  he  could 
slip  out  through  the  window  without  the  least  diffi- 
culty. Jacob,  the  horrible  Jacob,  had  an  awkward 
trick  of  getting  up  before  everybody  else,  to  stem  his 
hunger  by  emptying  the  milk-bowl  that  was  "duly  set" 
for  him ;  but  of  late  he  had  taken  to  sleeping  in  the 
hay-loft,  and  if  he  came  into  the  house,  it  would  be  on 
the  opposite  side  to  that  from  which  David  was  making 
his  exit.  There  was  no  need  to  think  of  Jacob,  yet 
David  was  liberal  enouejli  to  bestow  a  curse  on  him — 
it  was  the  only  thing  he  ever  did  bestow  gratuitously. 
His  small  bundle  of  olothes  was  ready  packed,  and  he 
was  soon  treading  lightly  on  the  steps  of  the  horse- 
block, soon  walking  at  a  smart  pace  across  the  fields  to- 
wards the  thicket.  It  would  take  him  no  more  than 
two  minutes  to  get  out  the  box;  he  could  make  out 


BROTHER  JACOB.  275 

the  tree  it  was  under  by  the  pale  strip  where  the  bark 
was  off,  although  the  dawning  light  was  rather  dimmer 
in  the  thicket.  But  what,  in  the  name  of — burned 
pastry — was  that  large  body  with  a  staff  planted  beside 
it,  close  at  the  foot  of  the  ash-tree  ?  David  paused,  not 
to  make  up  his  mind  as  to  the  nature  of  the  apparition 
— he  had  not  the  happiness  of  doubting  for  a  moment 
that  the  staff  was  Jacob's  pitchfork — but  to  gather  the 
self-command  necessary  for  addressing  his  brother  with 
a  sufficiently  honeyed  accent.  Jacob  was  absorbed  in 
scratching  up  the  earth,  and  had  not  heard  David's 
approach. 

"  I  say,  Jacob,"  said  David,  in  a  loud  whisper,  just 
as  the  tin  box  was  lifted  out  of  the  hole. 

Jacob  looked  up,  and  discerning  his  sweet -flavored 
brother,  nodded  and  grinned  in  tlie  dim  light  in  a  way 
that  made  him  seem  to  David  like  a  triumphant  demon. 
If  he  had  been  of  an  impetuous  disposition,  he  would 
have  snatched  the  pitchfork  from  the  ground  and  im- 
paled this  fraternal  demon.  But  David  was  by  no 
means  impetuous ;  he  was  a  young  man  greatly  given 
to  calculate  consequences — a  habit  which  has  been  held 
to  be  the  foundation  of  virtue.  But  somehow  it  had 
not  precisely  that  effect  in  David ;  he  calculated  whether 
an  action  would  harm  himself,  or  whether  it  would  only 
harm  other  people.  In  the  former  case  he  was  very 
timid  about  satisfying  his  immediate  desires,  but  in  the 
latter  he  would  risk  the  result  with  much  courage. 

"  Give  it  me,  Jacob,"  he  said,  stooping  down  and  pat- 
ting his  brother.     "  Let  us  see." 

Jacob,  finding  tlie  lid  rather  tight,  gave  the  box  to 
his  brother  in  perfect  faith.     David  raised  the  lid  and 


276  BROTHER   JACOB. 

shook  his  head,  while  Jacob  put  his  finger  in  and  took 
out  a  guinea  to  taste  whetlicr  the  metamorphosis  into 
lozenges  was  complete  and  satisfactor3^ 

'^'  No,  Jacob ;  too  soon,  too  soon,"  said  David,  when 
the  guinea  had  been  tasted.  "  Give  it  me ;  we'll  go 
and  bury  it  somewhere  else.  We'll  put  it  in  yonder," 
he  added,  pointing  vaguely  towards  the  distance, 

David  screwed  on  the  lid,  while  Jacob,  looking  grave, 
rose  and  grasped  his  pitchfork.  Then  seeing  David's 
bundle,  he  snatched  it,  like  a  too  officious  Newfound- 
land, stuck  his  pitchfork  into  it,  and  carried  it  over  his 
shoulder  in  triumph,  as  he  accompanied  David  and  the 
box  out  of  the  thicket. 

Wiiat  on  earth  was  David  to  do  ?  It  w^ould  have  been 
easy  to  frown  at  Jacob,  and  kick  him,  and  order  him  to 
get  away ;  but  David  dared  as  soon  have  kicked  the 
bull.  Jacob  was  quiet  as  long  as  he  was  treated  indul- 
gently ;  but  on  the  slightest  show  of  anger  he  becanie 
unmanageable,  and  was  liable  to  lits  of  fury,  which 
would  have  made  him  formidable  even  without  his 
pitchfork.  There  was  no  mastery  to  be  obtained  over 
him  except  by  kindness  or  guile.     David  tried  guile. 

"  Go,  Jacob,"  he  said,  when  they  were  out  of  the 
thicket,  pointing  towards  the  house  as  he  spoke — "go 
and  fetch  me  a  spade — a  spade.  But  give  me  the  bun- 
dle," he  added,  trying  to  reach  it  from  the  fork,  where 
it  hung  high  above  Jacob's  tall  shoulder. 

But  Jacob  showed  as  much  alacrity  in  obeying  as  a 
wasp  shows  in  leaving  a  sugar-basin.  Near  David  he 
felt  himself  in  the  vicinity  of  lozenges;  he  chuckled 
and  rubbed  his  brother's  back,  brandishing  the  bundle 
higher  out  of  reach.     David,  with  an  inward  groan, 


BROTHER   JACOB.  277 

changed  his  tactics,  and  walked  on  as  fast  as  he  could. 
It  was  not  safe  to  linger.  Jacob  would  get  tired  of  fol- 
lowing him,  or,  at  all  events,  could  be  eluded.  If  they 
could  once  get  to  the  distant  high-road,  a  coach  would 
overtake  them,  David  would  mount  it,  having  previous- 
ly, by  some  ingenious  means,  secured  his  bundle,  and 
then  Jacob  might  howl  and  flourish  his  pitchfork  as 
much  as  he  liked.  Meanwhile  he  was  under  the  fatal 
necessity  of  being  very  kind  to  this  ogre,  and  of  pro- 
viding a  large  breakfast  for  him  when  they  stopped  at 
a  roadside  inn.  It  was  already  three  hours  since  they 
had  started,  and  David  was  tired.  Would  no  coach  be 
coming  up  soon?  he  inquired.  No  coach  for  the  next 
two  hours.  But  there  was  a  carrier's  cart  to  come  im- 
mediately, on  its  way  to  the  next  town.  If  he  could 
slip  out,  even  leaving  his  bundle  behind,  and  get  into 
the  cart  without  Jacob !  But  there  was  a  new  obstacle. 
Jacob  had  recently  discovered  a  remnant  of  sugar-candy 
in  one  of  his  brother's  tail-pockets,  and  since  then  had 
cautiously  kept  his  hold  on  that  limb  of  the  garment, 
perhaps  with  an  expectation  that  there  would  be  a  fur- 
ther development  of  sugar-candy  after  a  longer  or  short- 
er interval.  Now  every  one  who  has  worn  a  coat  will 
understand  the  sensibilities  that  must  keep  a  man  from 
starting  away  in  a  hurry  when  there  is  a  grasp  on  his 
coat-tail.  David  looked  forward  to  being  well  received 
among  strangers,  but  it  might  make  a  difference  if  he 
had  only  one  tail  to  his  coat. 

He  felt  himself  in  a  cold  perspiration.  He  could 
walk  no  more ;  he  must  get  into  the  cart  and  let  Jacob 
get  in  with  him.  Presently  a  cheering  idea  occurred  to 
him.  After  so  large  a  breakfast,  Jacob  would  be  sure 
to  go  to  sleep  in  the  cart ;  you  see  at  once  that  David 


278 


BKOTUER   JACOB. 


meant  to  seize  his  bundle,  jump  out,  and  be  free.  His 
expectation  was  partly  fulfilled ;  Jacob  did  go  to  sleep 
in  the  cart,  but  it  was  in  a  peculiar  attitude — it  was  with 
his  arms  tightly  fastened  round  his  dear  brother's  body; 
and  if  ever  David  attempted  to  move,  the  grasp  tight- 
ened with  the  force  of  an  affectionate  boa-constrictor. 

"  Th'  innicent's  fond  on  you,"  observed  the  carrier, 
thinking  that  David  was  probably  an  amiable  brother, 
and  wishing  to  pay  him  a  compliment, 

David  groaned.  The  ways  of  thieving  wer^  not  ways 
of  pleasantness.  Oh,  why  had  he  an  idiot  brother?  Or 
why,  in  general,  was  the  world  so  constituted  that  a  man 
could  not  take  his  mother's  guineas  comfortably  ?  David 
became  grimly  speculative. 

Copious  dinner  at  noon  for  Jacob,  but  little  dinner, 
because  little  appetite,  for  David.  Instead  of  eating, 
he  plied  Jacob  with  beer ;  for  through  this  liberality  he 
descried  a  hope.  Jacob  fell  into  a  dead  sleep  at  last, 
without  having  his  arms  round  David,  who  paid  the 
reckoning,  took  his  bundle,  and  walked  off.  In  another 
half  hour  he  was  on  the  coach  on  his  way  to  Liverpool, 
smiling  the  smile  of  the  triumphant  wicked.  He  was 
rid  of  Jacob — he  was  bound  for  the  Indies,  where  a 
gullible  princess  awaited  him.  He  would  never  steal 
any  more,  but  there  wonld  be  no  need ;  he  would  show 
himself  so  deserving  that  people  would  make  him  pres- 
ents freely.  He  must  give  up  the  notion  of  his  father's 
legacy ;  but  it  was  not  likely  he  would  ever  want  that 
trifle ;  and  even  if  he  did,  why,  it  was  a  compensation 
to  think  that  in  being  forever  divided  from  his  family 
he  was  divided  from  Jacob,  more  terrible  than  Gorgon 
or  Demogorgon  to  David's  timid  green  eyes.  Thank 
Heaven,  he  should  never  see  Jacob  any  more ! 


BKOTUEK   JACOB.  279 


Chapter  II. 

It  was  nearly  six  years  after  the  departure  of  Mr. 
David  Faux  for  the  West  Indies  that  the  vacant  shoo 
in  the  market-place  at  Grim  worth  was  understood  to 
have  been  let  to  the  stranger  witli  a  sallow  complexion 
and  a  buff  cravat,  whose  first  appearance  had  caused 
some  excitement  in  the  bar  of  the  Woolpack,  where  he 
iiad  called  to  wait  for  the  coach. 

Grimworth,  to  a  discerning  eye,  was  a  good  place  to 
set  up  shopkeeping  in.  There  was  no  competition  in 
it  at  present ;  the  Church  people  had  their  own  grocer 
and  draper;  the  Dissenters  had  theirs;  and  the  two  or 
three  butchers  found  a  ready  market  for  their  joints 
without  strict  reference  to  religious  persuasion — except 
that  the  rector's  wife  had  given  a  general  order  for  the 
veal  sweetbreads  and  the  mutton  kidneys,  while  Mr. 
Rodd,  the  Baptist  minister,  had  requested  that,  so  far 
as  was  compatible  with  the  fair  accommodation  of  other 
customers,  the  sheep's  trotters  might  be  reserved  for 
him.  And  it  was  likely  to  be  a  growing  place,  for  the 
trustees  of  Mr.  Zephaniah  Crypt's  Charity,  under  the 
stimulus  of  a  late  visitation  by  commissioners,  were 
beginning  to  apply  long- accumulating  funds  to  the  re- 
building of  the  Yellow  Coat  School,  which  was  hence- 
forth to  be  carried  forward  on  a  greatly  extended  scale, 
the  testator  having  left  no  restrictions  concerning  the 
curriculum,  but  only  concerning  the  coat. 

The  shopkeepers  at  Grimworth   were   by  no  means 


280 


BKOTHEK  JACOB. 


unaniraous  as  to  the  advantages  promised  by  this  prps- 
pect  of  increased  population  and  trading,  being  substan- 
tial men,  who  liked  doing  a  quiet  business  in  which 
they  were  sure  of  their  customers,  and  could  calculate 
their  returns  to  a  nicety.  Hitherto  it  had  been  held 
a  point  of  honor  by  the  families  in  Grimworth  parish 
to  buy  their  sugar  and  their  flannel  at  the  shops  where 
their  fathers  and  mothers  had  bought  before  them  ;  but 
if  new-comers  were  to  bring  in  the  system  of  neck-and- 
neck  trading,  and  solicit  feminine  eyes  by  gown  pieces 
laid  in  fan-like  folds,  and  surmounted  by  artificial  flow- 
ers, giving  them  a  factitious  charm  (for  on  what  human 
figure  would  a  gown  sit  like  a  fan,  or  what  female  head 
was  like  a  bunch  of  china-asters?),  or  if  new  grocers 
were  to  fill  their  windows  with  mountains  of  currants 
and  sugar,  made  seductive  by  contrast  and  tickets,  what 
security  was  there  for  Grimworth,  that  a  vagrant  spirit 
in  shopping,  once  introduced,  would  not  in  the  end  carry 
the  most  important  families  to  the  larger  market-town 
of  Cattleton,  where,  business  being  done  on  a  system  of 
small  profits  and  quick  returns,  the  fashions  were  of  the 
freshest,  and  goods  of  all  kinds  might  be  bought  at  an 
advantage  ? 

With  this  view  of  the  times  predominant  among  the 
tradespeople  at  Grimworth,  their  uncertainty  concern- 
ing the  nature  of  the  business  which  the  sallow-com- 
plexioned  stranger  was  about  to  set  up  in  the  vacant 
shop  naturally  gave  some  additional  strength  to  the 
fears  of  the  less  sanguine.  If  he  was  going  to  sell  dra- 
pery, it  was  probable  that  a  pale-faced  fellow  like  that 
would  deal  in  showy  and  inferior  articles — printed  cot- 
tons and  muslins  which  would  leave  their  dye  in  the 


BKOTUER  JACOB.  281 

wash-tub,  jobbed  linen  full  of  knots,  and  flannel  that 
would  soon  look  like  gauze.  If  groceiy,  then  it  was  to 
be  hoped  that  no  niotJier  of  a  family  would  trust  the 
teas  of  an  untried  grocer.  Such  things  had  been  known 
in  some  parishes  as  tradesmen  going  about  canvassing 
for  custom  with  cards  in  their  pockets :  when  people 
came  from  nobody  knew  where,  there  was  no  knowing 
what  tliey  might  do.  It  was  a  tliousand  pities  that 
Mr.  Moffat,  the  auctioneer  and  broker,  had  died  without 
leaving  anybody  to  follow  him  in  the  business,  and  Mrs. 
Clove's  trustee  ought  to  have  known  better  than  to  let 
a  shop  to  a  stranger.  Even  the  discovery  that  ovens 
were  being  put  up  on  the  premises,  and  that  the  shop 
was,  in  fact,  being  fitted  up  for  a  confectioner  and  pas- 
try-cook's business,  hitherto  unknown  in  Grimworth,  did 
not  quite  suffice  to  turn  the  scale  in  the  new-comer's 
favor,  though  the  landlady  at  the  AVoolpack  defended 
him  warmly,  said  he  seemed  to  be  a  very  clever  young 
man,  and  from  what  she  could  make  out  came  of  a  very 
good  family  ;  indeed,  was  most  likely  a  good  many  peo- 
ple's betters. 

It  certainly  made  a  blaze  of  light  and  color,  almost  as 
if  a  rainbow  had  suddenly  descended  into  the  market- 
place, when,  one  fine  morning,  the  shutters  were  taken 
down  from  the  new  shop,  and  the  two  windows  dis- 
played their  decorations.  On  one  side  there  were  the 
variegated  tints  of  collared  and  marbled  meats,  set  off 
by  bright  green  leaves,  the  pale  brown  of  glazed  pies, 
the  rich  tones  of  sauces  and  bottled  fruits  enclosed  in 
their  veil  of  glass — altogether  a  sight  to  bring  tears  into 
the  eyes  of  a  Dutch  painter;  and  on  the  other  there 

was  a  predonnnance  of  the  more  delicate  hues  of  pink 

27  N 


282  BKOTIIER   JACOB. 

and  white  and  yellow  and  buff  in  the  abundant  loz- 
enges, candies,  sweet  biscuits,  and  icings  which  to  the 
eyes  of  a  bilious  person  might  easily  have  been  blended 
into  a  fairy  landscape  in  Turner's  latest  style.  AVhat 
a  sight  to  dawn  upon  the  e^^es  of  Grimworth  children  I 
They  almost  forgot  to  go  to  their  dinner  that  day, 
their  appetites  being  preoccupied  with  imaginary  su- 
gar-plums; and  I  think  even  Punch,  setting  up  his  tab- 
ernacle in  the  market-place,  would  not  have  succeeded 
in  drawing  them  awa}^  from  those  shop-windows,  where 
they  stood  according  to  gradations  of  size  and  strength, 
the  biggest  and  strongest  being  nearest  the  window,  and 
the  little  ones  in  the  outermost  rows  lifting  wide-open 
eyes  and  mouths  towards  the  upper  tier  of  jars,  like 
small  birds  at  meal-time. 

The  elder  inhabitants  pished  and  pshawed  a  little  at 
the  folly  of  the  new  shop-keeper  in  venturing  on  such 
an  outlay  in  goods  that  would  not  keep.  To  be  sure, 
Christmas  was  comino-,  but  what  housewife  in  Grim- 
worth  would  not  think  shame  to  furnish  forth  her  table 
with  articles  that  were  not  home-cooked  ?  ISTo,  no ;  Mr, 
Edward  Freely,  as  he  called  himself,  was  deceived  if  he 
thought  Grimworth  money  was  to  flow  into  his  pockets 
on  such  terms. 

Edward  Freely  was  the  name  that  shone  in  gilt  let- 
ters on  a  mazarine  ground  over  the  door-place  of  the 
new  shop — a  generous-sounding  name  that  might  liave 
belonged  to  the  open-hearted,  improvident  hero  of  an 
old  comedy,  who  would  have  delighted  in  raining  su- 
gared almonds,  like  a  new  manna-gift,  among  that  small 
generation  outside  the  windows.  But  Mr.  Edward  Free- 
ly was  a  man  whose  impulses  were  kept  in  due  subor- 


BROTHER   JACOB.  283 

dination ;  he  held  that  the  desire  for  sweets  and  pastry 
must  only  be  satisfied  in  a  direct  ratio  with  the  power 
of  paying  for  them.  If  the  smallest  child  in  Grim- 
worth  would  go  to  him  with  a  half-penny  in  its  tiny 
fist,  he  would,  after  ringing  the  half-penny,  deliver  a 
just  equivalent  in  "  rock."  He  was  not  a  man  to  cheat 
even  the  smallest  child ;  he  often  said  so,  observing  at 
the  same  time  that  he  loved  honesty,  and  also  that  he 
was  very  tender-hearted,  though  he  didn't  show  liis  feel- 
ings as  some  people  did. 

Either  in  reward  of  such  virtue,  or  according  to  some 
more  hidden  law  of  sequence,  Mr.  Freely's  business,  in 
spite  of  prejudice,  started  under  favorable  auspices.  For 
Mrs.  Chaloner,  the  rector's  wife,  was  among  the  earliest 
customers  at  the  shop,  thinking  it  only  right  to  encour- 
age a  new  parishioner  who  had  made  a  decorous  appear- 
ance at  church ;  and  she  found  Mr.  Freely  a  most  civil, 
obliging  young  man,  and  intelligent  to  a  surprising 
degree  for  a  confectioner;  well -principled,  too,  for  in 
giving  her  useful  hints  about  choosing  sugars  he  had 
thrown  much  light  on  the  dishonesty  of  other  trades- 
men. Moreover,  he  had  been  in  the  West  Indies,  and 
Lad  seen  the  very  estate  which  had  been  her  poor 
grandfather's  property;  and  he  said  the  missionaries 
were  the  only  cause  of  the  negro's  discontent — an  ob- 
serving young  man,  evidently.  Mrs.  Chaloner  ordered 
wine-biscuits  and  olives,  and  gave  Mr.  Freely  to  under- 
stand that  she  should  find  his  shop  a  great  convenience. 
So  did  the  doctor's  wife,  and  so  did  Mrs.  Gate,  at  the 
large  carding  mill,  who,  having  high  connections  fre- 
quently visiting  her,  might  be  expected  to  have  a  large 
consumption  of  ratafias  and  macaroons. 


284  BROTHER   JACOB. 

The  less  aristocratic  matrons  of  Griniworth  seemed 
likely  at  first  to  justify  their  husbands'  confidence  that 
they  would  never  pay  a  percentage  of  profits  on  drop- 
cakes,  instead  of  making  their  own,  or  get  np  a  hollow 
show  of  liberal  house-keeping  by  purchasing  slices  of 
collared  meat  when  a  neighbor  came  in  for  supper. 
But  it  is  my  task  to  narrate  the  gradual  corruption  of 
Griniworth  manners  from  their  primitive  simplicity — 
a  melancholy  task,  if  it  were  not  cheered  by  the  pros- 
pect of  the  fine  peripateia  or  downfall  by  Avhich  the 
progress  of  the  corruption  was  ultimately  checked. 

It  was  young  Mrs.  Steene,  the  veterinary  surgeon's 
wife,  who  first  gave  way  to  temptation.  I  fear  she  had 
been  rather  over-educated  for  her  station  in  life,  for  she 
knew  by  heart  many  passages  in  "  Lalla  Rookh,"  the 
"  Corsair,"  and  the  "  Siege  of  Corinth,"  which  had 
given  her  a  distaste  for  domestic  occupations,  and 
caused  her  a  withering  disappointment  at  the  discovery 
that  Mr.  Steene,  since  his  marriage,  had  lost  all  interest 
in  the  "  bulbul,"  openly  preferred  discussing  the  nature 
of  spavin  wdtli  a  coarse  neighbor,  and  was  angry  if  the 
pndding  turned  out  watery — indeed,  was  simply  a  top- 
booted  "  vet,"  who  came  in  hungry  at  dinner-time,  and 
not  in  the  least  like  a  nobleman  turned  corsair  out  of 
pure  scorn  for  his  race,  or  like  a  renegade  with  a  turban 
and  crescent,  unless  it  were  in  the  irritability  of  his  tem- 
per. And  anger  is  such  a  very  different  thing  in  top- 
boots  ! 

This  brutal  man  had  invited  a  supper -party  for 
Christmas-eve,  when  he  would  expect  to  see  niince-pies 
on  the  table.  Mrs.  Steene  had  prepared  her  mince- 
meat, and   had   devoted   much   butter,  fine  flour,  and 


BKOTIIER   JACOB.  285 

labor  to  the  making  of  a  batch  of  pies  in  the  morning ; 
but  they  proved  to  be  so  very  heavy  vi^heu  they  came 
out  of  the  oven  that  she  could  only  think  with  trem- 
bling of  the  moment  when  hqr  husband  should  catch 
sight  of  them  on  the  snpper-table.  He  would  storm  at 
her,  she  was  certain,  and  before  all  the  company;  and 
then  she  should  never  help  crying.  It  was  so  dreadful 
to  think  she  had  come  to  that,  after  the  bulbul  and 
everything!  Suddenly  the  thought  darted  through 
her  mind  that  this  once  she  might  send  for  a  dish  of 
mince-pies  from  Freely's  :  she  knew  he  had  some.  But 
what  was  to  become  of  the  eighteen  heavy  mince-pies  ? 
Oh,  it  was  of  no  use  thinking  about  that ;  it  was  very 
expensive — indeed,  making  mince-pies  at  all  was  a  great 
expense,  when  they  were  not  sure  to  turn  out  M^ell :  it 
would  be  much  better  to  buy  them  ready-made.  You 
paid  a  little  more  for  them,  but  there  was  no  risk  of 
waste. 

Such  was  the  sophistry  with  which  this  misguided 
young  woman —  Enough.  Mrs.  Steene  sent  for  the 
mince-pies,  and,  I  am  grieved  to  add,  garbled  her  house- 
hold accounts  in  order  to  conceal  the  fact  from  her  hus- 
band. This  was  the  second  step  in  a  downward  course, 
all  owing  to  a  young  woman's  being  out  of  harmony 
with  her  circumstances,  yearning  after  renegades  and 
bulbuls,  and  being  subject  to  claims  fr6m  a  veterinary 
surgeon  fond  of  mince-pies.  The  third  step  was  to 
harden  herself  by  telling  the  fact  of  the  bought  mince- 
pies  to  her  intimate  friend  Mrs.  Mole,  who  had  already 
guessed  it,  and  who  subsequently  encouraged  lierself  in 
buying  a  mould  of  jelly,  instead  of  exerting  her  own 
skill,  by   the    reflection    that  "other    people"  did   the 


286  BROTHER   JACOB. 

same  sort  of  thing.  The  infection  spread ;  soon  there 
was  a  party  or  clique  in  Grimworth  on  the  side  of 
"buying  at  Freely's ;"  and  many  husbands,  kept  for 
some  time  in  the  dark  on  this  point,  innocently  swal- 
lowed at  two  mouthfuls  a  tart  on  which  they  were 
paying  a  profit  of  a  hundred  per  cent.,  and  as  innocently 
encouraged  a  fatal  disingenuousness  in  the  partners  of 
their  bosoms  by  praising  the  pastry.  Others,  more 
keen-sighted,  winked  at  the  too  frequent  presentation 
on  washing-days  and  at  impromptu  suppers  of  superior 
spiced  beef,  which  flattered  their  palates  more  than  the 
cold  remnants  they  had  formerly  been  contented  with. 
Every  housewife  who  had  once  "bought  at  Freely's" 
felt  a  secret  joy  when  she  detected  a  similar  perversion 
in  her  neighbor's  practice,  and  soon  only  two  or  three 
old-fashioned  mistresses  of  families  held  out  in  the  pro- 
test against  the  growing  demoralization,  saying  to  their 
neighbors  who  came  to  sup  with  them,  "  I  can't  offer 
you  Freely's  beef,  or  Freely's  cheese-cakes;  everything 
in.  our  house  is  home-made.  I'm  afraid  you'll  hardly 
have  any  appetite  for  our  plain  pastry."  The  doctor, 
whose  cook  was  not  satisfactory,  the  curate,  who  kept 
no  cook,  and  the  mining  agent,  who  was  a  great  l)on 
vivant,  even  began  to  rely  on  Freely  for  the  greater 
part  of  their  dinner  when  they  wished  to  give  an  enter- 
tainment of  some  brilliancy.  In  short,  the  business  of 
manufacturing  the  more  fanciful  viands  was  fast  pass- 
ing out  of  the  hands  of  maids  and  matrons  in  private 
families,  and  was  becoming  the  work  of  a  special  com- 
mercial organ. 

I  am  not  ignorant  that  this  sort  of  thing  is  called  the 
inevitable  course  of  civilization,  division  of  labor,  and 


BKOTUEK   JACOB.  287 

SO  forth,  and  that  the  maids  and  matrons  may  be  said 
to  have  had  their  hands  set  free  from  cookery  to  add  to 
the  wealtli  of  societj^  in  some  other  way.  Only  it  hap- 
pened at  Grimworth,  whieli,  to  be  sure,  was  a  low 
place,  that  the  maids  and  matrons  conld  do  nothing 
with  their  hands  at  all  better  than  cooking ;  not  even 
those  who  had  always  made  sad  cakes  and  leathery 
pastry.  And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  the  progress  of 
civilization  at  Grimworth  wns  not  otherwise  apparent 
than  in  the  impoverishment  of  men,  the  gossiping 
idleness  of  women,  and  the  heightening  prosperity  of 
Mr.  Edward  Freely. 

The  Yellow  Coat  School  was  a  donble  source  of 
profit  to  the  calculating  confectioner,  for  he  opened  an 
eating-room  for  the  superior  workmen  employed  on  tlie 
new  school,  and  he  accommodated  the  pupils  at  the  old 
school  by  giving  great  attention  to  the  fancy-sugar  de- 
partment. When  I  think  of  the  sweet-tasted  swans  and 
other  ingenious  white  shapes  crunched  by  the  small 
teeth  of  that  rising  generation,  I  am  glad  to  remember 
tnat  a  certain  amount  of  calcareous  food  has  been  held 
good  for  young  creatures  whose  bones  are  not  quite 
formed ;  for  I  have  observed  these  delicacies  to  have 
an  inorganic  flavor  which  would  have  recommended 
them  greatly  to  that  young  lady  of  the  Spectato7''s  ac- 
quaintance who  habitually  made  her  dessert  on  the  stems 
of  tobacco-pipes. 

As  for  the  confectioner  himself,  he  made  his  way 
gradually  into  Grimworth  homes,  as  his  commodities 
did,  in  spite  of  some  initial  repugnance.  Somehow  or 
other  his  reception  as  a  guest  seemed  a  thing  that  re- 
quired justifying,  like  the  purchasing  of  his  pastry.     In 


288  BROTHER    JACOB. 

the  first  place,  he  was  a  stranger,  and  therefore  open  to 
suspicion;  secondl}^  the  confectionery  bnsiaess  was  so 
entirely  new  at  Griniworth  that  its  place  in  the  scale  of 
rank  had  not  been  distinctly  ascertained.  There  was  no 
doubt  about  drapers  and  grocers,  when  the}'  came  of 
good  old  Grimworth  families,  like  Mr.  Luif  and  Mr. 
Prettyman :  they  visited  with  the  Palfreys,  and  the 
Palfreys  farmed  their  own  land,  played  many  a  game 
at  whist  with  the  doctor,  and  condescended  a  little  to- 
wards the  timber  merchant,  who  had  lately  taken  to  the 
coal  trade  also,  and  had  got  new  furniture  ;  but  whether 
a  confectioner  should  be  admitted  to  this  higher  level 
of  respectabilit}',  or  should  be  understood  to  find  his 
associates  among  butchers  and  bakers,  was  a  new  ques- 
tion on  which  tradition  threw  no  light.  His  being  a 
bachelor  was  in  liis  favor,  and  would,  perhaps,  have 
been  enough  to  turn  the  scale,  even  if  Mr.  Edward 
Freely's  other  personal  pretensions  had  been  of  an  en- 
tirely insignificant  east.  But  so  far  from  this,  it  very 
soon  appeared  that  he  was  a  remarkable  young  man, 
who  had  been  in  the  West  Indies,  and  had  seen  many 
v^•onders  by  sea  and  land,  so  that  he  could  charm  the 
ears  of  Grimworth  Desdemonas  with  stories  of  strange 
fish,  especially  sharks,  which  he  had  stabbed  in  the  nick 
of  time  by  bravely  plunging  overboard  just  as  the  mon- 
ster was  turning  on  his  side  to  devour  the  cook's  mate ; 
of  terrible  fevers  which  he  had  undergone  in  a  land 
where  the  wind  blows  from  all  quarters  at  once ;  of 
rounds  of  toast  cut  straight  from  the  bread-fruit  trees; 
of  toes  bitten  of  by  land-crabs;  of  large  honors  tliat  had 
been  offered  to  him  as  a  man  who  knew  what  was  what, 
and   was,  therefore,  particularly  needed   in    a   tropical 


BEOTHEK  JACOB.  289 

climate;  and  of  a  Creole  heiress  who  had  wept  bitterly 
at  his  departure.  Such  conversational  talents  as  these, 
we  know,  will  overcome  disadvantages  of  complexion ; 
and  yonng  Towers,  whose  cheeks  were  of  the  finest 
pink,  set  off  by  a  fringe  of  dark  whisker,  was  quite 
eclipsed  by  the  presence  of  the  sallov/  Mr.  Freely.  So 
exceptional  a  confectioner  elevated  his  business,  and 
might  well  begin  to  make  disengaged  hearts  flutter  a 
little. 

Fatliers  and  mothers  were  naturally  more  slow  and 
cautious  in  their  recognition  of  the  new-comer's  merits. 

"  He's  an  amusing  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Prettyman,  the 
highly  respectable  grocer  (Mrs.  Prettyman  was  a  Miss 
Fothergill,  and  her  sister  had  married  a  London  mercer) 
— "he's  an  amusing  fellow, and  Pve  no  objection  to  his 
making  one  at  the  Oyster  Club ;  but  he's  a  bit  too  fond 
of  riding  tiie  high  horse.  He's  uncommonly  knowing, 
I'll  allow ;  but  how  came  he  to  go  to  the  Indies  ?  I 
should  like  that  answered.  It's  unnatural  in  a  confec- 
tioner. I'm  not  fond  of  people  that  have  been  beyond 
seas,  if  they  can't  give  a  good  account  how  they  hap- 
pened to  go.  When  folks  go  so  far  off,  it's  because 
they've  got  little  credit  nearer  home — that's  my  opin- 
ion. However,  he's  got  some  good  rum;  but  I  don't 
want  to  be  hand-and-glove  with  him,  for  all  that." 

It  was  this  kind  of  dim  suspicion  which  beclouded 
the  view  of  Mr.  Freely's  qualities  in  the  maturer  minds 
of  Grimworth  through  the  early  months  of  his  residence 
there.  But  when  the  confectioner  ceased  to  be  a  nov- 
elty, the  suspicions-  also  ceased  to  be  novel,  and  people 
got  tired  of  hinting  at  them,  especially  as  they  seemed 

to  be  refuted  by  his  advancing  prosperity  and  impor- 

27*  N* 


290  BKOTIIElt   JACOB. 

tance.  Mr.  Freely  was  becoming  a  person  of  influence 
in  tlie  parish  ;  he  was  found  useful  as  an  overseer  of  the 
poor,  having  great  firmness  in  enduring  other  people's 
pain — wliich  firmness,  he  said,  was  due  to  his  great  be- 
nevolence ;  he  always  did  what  was  good  for  people  in 
the  end,  Mr.  Chaloner  had  even  selected  him  as  clergy- 
man's church-warden,  for  he  was  a  very  handy  man,  and 
much  more  of  Mr.  Chaloner's  opinion  in  everything 
about  church  business  than  the  older  parishioners.  Mr. 
Freely  was  a  very  regular  churchman,  but  at  the  Oyster 
Club  he  was  sometimes  a  little  free  in  his  conversation, 
more  than  hinting  at  a  life  of  Sultanic  self-indule-ence 
which  he  had  passed  in  the  West  Indies,  shaking  his 
head  now  and  then  and  smiling  rather  bitterly,  as  men 
are  wont  to  do  when  they  intimate  that  they  have  be- 
come a  little  too  wise  to  be  instructed  about  a  world 
which  has  long  been  flat  and  stale  to  them. 

For  some  time  he  was  quite  general  in  his  attentions 
to  the  fair  sex,  combining  the  gallantries  of  a  lady's  man 
with  a  severity  of  criticism  on  the  person  and  manners 
of  absent  belles,  which  tended  rather  to  stimulate  in  the 
feminine  breast  the  desire  to  conquer  the  approval  of  so 
fastidious  a  judge.  Nothing  short  of  the  very  best  in 
the  department  of  female  charms  and  virtues  could  suf- 
fice to  kindle  the  ardor  of  Mr.  Edward  Freely,  who  had 
become  familiar  with  tiie  most  luxuriant  and  dazzling 
beauty  in  the  "West  Indies.  It  may  seem  incredible  to 
you  that  a  confectioner  should  have  ideas  and  conver- 
sation so  much  resembling  those  to  be  met  with  in  a 
higher  walk  of  life,  but  you  must  remember  that  he 
had  not  merely  travelled,  he  had  also  bow -legs  and 
a  sallow,  small-featured  visage,  so  that  nature  herself 


BROTHER   JACOB.  291 

had  stomped  him  for  a  fastidious  connoisseur  of  the 
fair  sex. 

At  last,  however,  it  seemed  clear  that  Cupid  had  found 
a  sharper  arrow  than  usual,  and  that  Mr.  Freely's  heart 
was  pierced.  It  was  the  general  talk  among  the  young 
people  at  Grimworth.  But  was  it  really  love,  and  not 
rather  ambition  ?  Miss  Fullilove,  the  timber  merchant's 
daughter,  was  quite  sure  that  if  she  were  Miss  Penny 
Palfrey  she  would  be  cautious ;  it  was  not  a  good  sign 
when  men  looked  so  much  above  themselves  for  a  wife. 
For  it  was  no  less  a  person  than  Miss  Penelope  Palfre}', 
second  daughter  of  the  Mr.  Palfrey  who  farmed  his  own 
land,  that  had  attracted  Mr.  Freely's  peculiar  regard  and 
conquered  his  fastidiousness ;  and  no  wonder,  for  the 
Ideal,  as  exhibited  in  the  finest  waxwork,  was  perhaps 
never  so  closely  approached  by  the  Real  as  in  the  per- 
son of  the  pretty  Penelope.  Her  yellowish  flaxen  hair 
did  not  curl  naturally,  I  admit,  but  its  bright,  crisp  ring- 
lets were  such  smooth,  perfect  miniature  tubes  that  you 
would  have  longed  to  pass  your  little  finger  through 
them  and  feel  their  soft  elasticity.  She  wore  them  in  a 
crop — for  in  those  days,  when  society  was  in  a  healthier 
state,  young  ladies  wore  crops  long  after  they  were  twen- 
ty, and  Penelope  was  not  yet  nineteen.  Like  the  waxen 
Ideal,  she  had  round  blue  eyes,  and  round  nostrils  in  her 
little  nose,  and  teeth  such  as  the  Ideal  would  be  seen  to 
have  if  it  ever  showed  them.  Altogether,  she  was  a 
small,  rouud  thing,  as  neat  as  a  pink  and  white  double 
daisy,  and  as  guileless ;  for  I  hope  you  do  not  think  it 
argues  any  guile  in  a  pretty  damsel  of  nineteen  to  think 
that  she  should  like  to  have  a  beau  and  be  "engaged," 
when  her  elder  sister  had  already  been  in  that  position 


292  BuoxnEii  jacob. 

a  year  and  a  half.  To  be  sure,  there  M'as  young  Towers 
always  coining  to  the  house ;  but  Fenny  felt  convinced 
he  only  came  to  see  her  brother,  for  he  never  had  any- 
thing to  say  to  her,  and  never  offered  her  his  arm,  and 
was  as  awkward  and  silent  as  possible. 

It  is  not  unlikely  that  Mr.  Freely  had  early  been  smit- 
ten by  Fenny's  charms  as  brought  under  his  observation 
at  church,  but  he  had  to  make  his  way  in  society  a  little 
before  he  could  come  into  nearer  contact  with  them ;  and 
even  after  he  was  w^ell  received  in  Grimworth  families, 
it  was  a  long  while  before  he  could  converse  with  Fenny 
otherwise  than  in  an  incidental  meeting  at  Mr.  Luff's. 
It  was  not  so  easy  to  get  invited  to  Long  Meadows,  the 
residence  of  the  Falfreys ;  for  though  Mr.  Falfrey  had 
been  losing  money  of  late  years — not  being  able  quite  to 
recover  his  feet  after  the  terrible  murrain  which  forced 
him  to  borrow — his  family  were  far  from  considering 
themselves  on  the  same  level  even  as  the  old-established 
tradespeople  with  whom  they  visited ;  for  the  greatest 
people,  even  kings  and  queens,  must  visit  with  somebody, 
and  the  equals  of  the  great  are  scarce.  They  were  es- 
pecially scarce  at  Grimworth,  which,  as  I  have  before 
observed,  was  a  low  parish,  mentioned  with  the  most 
scornful  brevity  in  gazetteers.  Even  the  great  people 
there  were  far  behind  those  of  their  own  standing  in 
other  parts  of  this  realm.  Mr.  Falfrey's  farm-yard  doors 
had  the  paint  all  worn  off  them,  and  the  front  garden 
walks  had  long  been  merged  in  a  general  weediness.  Still 
his  father  had  been  called  Squire  Falfre}^,  and  had  been 
respected  by  the  last  Grimworth  generation  as  a  man 
who  could  afford  to  drink  too  much  in  his  own  house. 

Pretty  Fenny  was  not  blind  to  the  fact  that  Mr.  Freely 


BKOTnEE   JACOB.  293 

admired  her,  and  she  felt  sure  that  it  was  he  who  had 
sent  her  a  beautiful  valentine ;  but  her  sister  seemed  to 
think  so  lightly  of  him  (all  engaged  young  ladies  think 
lightly  of  the  gentlemen  to  whom  they  are  not  engaged), 
that  Penny  dared  never  mention  him,  and  trembled  and 
blushed  whenever  they  met  him,  thinking  of  the  valen- 
tine, which  was  very  strong  in  its  expressions,  and  which 
she  felt  guilty  of  knowing  by  heart.  A  man  who  had 
been  to  the  Indies,  and  knew  the  sea  so  well,  seemed  to 
her  a  sort  of  public  character,  almost  like  Robinson  Cru- 
soe or  Captain  Cook;  and  Penny  had  always  wished  her 
husband  to  be  a  remarkable  personage,  likely  to  be  put 
in  Mangnall's  Questions,  with  which  register  of  the  im- 
mortals she  had  become  acquainted  during  her  one  year 
at  a  boarding-school.  Only  it  seemed  strange  that  a  re- 
markable man  should  be  a  confectioner  and  pastry-cook, 
and  this  anomaly  quite  disturbed  Penny's  dreams.  Her 
brothers,  she  knew,  laughed  at  men  who  couldn't  sit  on 
horseback  well,  and  called  them  tailors ;  but  her  broth- 
ers were  very  rough,  and  were  quite  without  that  power 
of  anecdote  which  made  Mr.  Freely  such  a  delightful 
companion.  He  was  a  very  good  man,  she  thought ;  for 
she  had  heard  him  say  at  Mr.  Luff's,  one  day,  that  he  al- 
ways wished  to  do  his  duty  in  whatever  state  of  life  he 
might  be  placed ;  and  he  knew  a  great  deal  of  poetry, 
for  one  day  he  had  repeated  a  verse  of  a  song.  She 
wondered  if  he  had  made  the  words  of  the  valentine. 
It  ended  in  this  way: 

"Without  thee,  it  is  pain  to  live; 
But  with  thee,  it  were  sweet  to  die." 

Poor  Mr.  Freely !  her  father  would  very  likely  object ; 
she  felt  sure  he  would,  for  lie  always  called  Mr.  Freely 


294  BROTHER   JACOB. 

''  that  siigar-plum  fellow."  Oh,  it  was  very  cruel,  when 
trne-Iove  was  crossed  in  that  way,  and  all  because  Mr. 
Freely  was  a  confectioner  !  Well,  Penny  would  be  true 
to  him,  for  all  that ;  and  since  his  being  a  confectioner 
gave  her  an  opportunity  of  showing  her  faithfulness,  she 
was  glad  of  it.  Edward  Freely  was  a  pretty  name,  much 
better  than  John  Towers.  Young  Towers  had  offered 
her  a  rose  out  of  his  button-hole  the  other  day,  blushing 
very  much ;  but  she  refused  it,  and  thought  with  de- 
light how  much  Mr.  Freely  would  be  comforted  if  he 
knew  her  firmness  of  mind. 

Poor  little  Penny !  the  days  were  so  very  long  among 
the  daisies  on  a  grazing  farm,  and  thought  is  so  active, 
how  was  it  possible  that  the  inward  drama  should  not 
get  the  start  of  the  outward?  I  have  known  young  la- 
dies much  better  educated,  and  with  an  outward  world 
■  diversified  by  instructive  lectures,  to  say  nothing  of  lit- 
erature and  highly  developed  fancy  -  work,  who  have 
spun  a  cocoon  of  visionary  joys  and  sorrows  for  them- 
selves, just  as  Penny  did.  Her  elder  sister,  Letitia,  who 
had  a  prouder  style  of  beauty  and  a  more  worldly  am- 
bition, was  engaged  to  a  wool-factor,  who  came  all  the 
way  from  Cattleton  to  see  her;  and  everybody  knows 
that  a  wool -factor  takes  a  very  high  rank,  sometimes 
driving  a  double-bodied  gig.  Letty's  notions  got  high- 
er every  day,  and  Penny  never  dared  to  speak  of  her 
cherished  griefs  to  her  lofty  sister ;  never  dared  to  pro- 
pose that  they  should  call  at  Mr.Freely's  to  buy  licorice, 
though  she  had  prepared  for  such  an  incident  by  men- 
tioning a  slight  sore  throat.  So  she  had  to  pass  the 
shop  on  the  other  side  of  the  market-place,  and  reflect, 
with  a  suppressed  sigh,  that  behind  those  pink  and  white 


BKOTIIEB   JACOB.  295 

jars  somebody  was  thinking  of  her  tenderly,  unconscious 
of  the  small  space  that  divided  her  from  him. 

And  it  was  quite  true  that,  when  business  permitted, 
Mr.  Freely  thought  a  great  deal  of  Penny.    He  thought 
her  prettiness  comparable  to  the  loveliest  things  in  con- 
fectionery ;  he  judged  her  to  be  of  submissive  temper 
— likely  to  wait  upon  him  as  well  as  if  she  had  been  a 
negress,  and  to  be  silently  terrified  when  his  liver  made 
him  irritable;  and  he  considered  the  Palfrey   family 
quite  the  best  in   the  parish  possessing   marriageable 
daughters.      On  the  whole,  he  thought  her  worthy  to 
become  Mrs.  Edward  Freely,  and  all  the  more  so  be- 
cause it  would  probably  require  some  ingenuity  to  win 
her.     Mr.  Palfrey  was  capable  of  horsewhipping  a  too 
rash  pretender  to  liis  daughter's  hand ;  and,  moreover, 
he  had  three  tall  sons :  it  was  clear  that  a  suitor  would 
be  at  a  disadvantage  with  such  a  family,  unless  travel 
and  natural  acumen  had  given  him  a  countervailing 
power  of  contrivance.     And  the  first  idea  that  occurred 
to  him  in  the  matter  was  that  Mr.  Palfrey  would  object 
less  if  he  knew  that  the  Freelys  were  a  much  higher 
family  than  his  own.     It  had  been  foolish  modesty  in 
him  hitherto  to  conceal  the  fact  that  a  branch  of  the 
Freelys  held  a  manor  in  Yorkshire,  and  to  shut  up 
the  portrait  of  his  great-uncle  the  admiral,  instead  of 
hanging  it  up  where  a  family  portrait  should  be  hung 
— over  the  mantel-piece  in  the  parlor.    Admiral  Freely, 
K.C.B.,  once  placed  in  this  conspicuous  position,  was 
seen  to  have  had  one  arm  only  and  one  eye — in  these 
points  resembling  the  heroic  Nelson  —  while  a  certain 
pallid  insignificance  of  feature  confirmed  the  relation- 
ship between  himself  and  his  grandnephew. 


296  mjoTiiEii  JACOB. 

Nextj^  Mr.  Freely  was  seized  with  an  irrepressible  am- 
bition to  possess  Mrs.  Palfrey's  receipt  for  brawn,  hers 
being  pronounced  on  all  hands  to  be  superior  to  his  own 
— as  he  informed  her  in  a  very  flattering  letter  carried 
by  his  errand-boy.  Now  Mrs,  Palfrey,  like  other  gen- 
iuses, wrought  by  instinct  rather  than  by  rule,  and  pos- 
sessed no  receipts — indeed,  despised  all  people  who  used 
them,  observing  that  people  who  pickled  by  book  must 
pickle  by  weights  and  measures,  and  such  nonsense ;  as 
for  herself,  her  weights  and  measures  were  the  tip  of  her 
finger  and  the  tip  of  her  tongue ;  and  if  you  went  near- 
er, why,  of  course,  for  dry  goods  like  flour  and  spice,  you 
went  by  handf uls  and  pinches ;  and  for  wet,  there  was 
a  middle-sized  jag  —  quite  the  best  thing,  whether  for 
much  or  little,  because  you  might  know  how  much  a 
teacupful  was,  if  you'd  got  any  use  of  your  senses,  and 
you  might  be  sure  it  would  take  five  middle-sized  jugs 
to  make  a  gallon. 

Knowledge  of  this  kind  is  like  Titian's  coloring — 
difiicult  to  communicate;  and  as  Mrs.  Palfrey,  once 
remarkably  handsome,  had  now  become  rather  stout 
and  asthmatical,  and  scarcely  ever  left  home,  her  oral 
teaching  could  hardly  be  given  anywhere  except  at 
Long  Meadows.  Even  a  matron  is  not  insusceptible 
to  flattery,  and  the  prospect  of  a  visitor  whose  great  ob- 
ject would  be  to  listen  to  her  conversation  was  not  with- 
out its  charms  to  Mrs.  Palfrey.  Since  there  was  no  re- 
ceipt to  be  sent,in  reply  to  Mr.Freely's  humble  request, 
she  called  on  her  more  docile  daughter,  Penny,  to  write 
a  note,  telling  him  that  her  mother  would  be  glad  to 
see  him  and  talk  with  him  on  brawn  any  day  that  he 
could  call  at  Long  Meadows.     Penny  obeyed  with  a 


BROTHEK   JACOB.  297 

trembling  liand,  thinking  how  wonderfully,  things  Ccarae 
about  in  this  world. 

In  this  way  Mr.  Freely  got  himself  introduced  into 
the  home  of  the  Palfreys,  and  notwithstanding  a  ten- 
dency in  the  male  part  of  the  family  to  jeer  at  him  a 
little  as  "peaky"  and  bow-legged,  he  presently  estab- 
lished his  position  as  an  accepted  and  frequent  guest. 
Young  Towers  looked  at  him  with  increasing  disgust 
when  they  met  at  the  house  on  a  Sunday,  and  secretly 
longed  to  try  his  ferret  upon  him,  as  a  piece  of  vermin 
which  that  valuable  animal  would  be  likely  to  tackle 
with  unhesitating  vigor.  But — so  blind  sometimes  are 
parents — neither  Mr.  nor  Mrs.  Palfrey  suspected  that 
Penny  would  have  anything  to  say  to  a  tradesman  of 
questionable  rank,  whose  youthful  bloom  was  much 
withered.  Young  Towers,  they  thought,  had  an  eye  to 
her,  and  that  was  likely  enough  to  be  a  match  some  day; 
but  Penny  was  a  child  at  present.  And  all  the  while 
Penny  was  imagining  the  circumstances  under  which 
Mr.  Freely  would  make  her  an  offer ;  perhaps  down  by 
the  row  of  damson-trees,  when  they  were  in  the  garden 
before  tea ;  perhaps  by  letter  —  in  which  case  how 
would  the  letter  begin ?  " Dearest  Penelope?"  or  "My 
dear  Miss  Penelope  V  or  straight  off,  without  dear  any- 
thing, as  seemed  the  most  natural  when  people  were 
embarrassed?  But  however  he  might  make  the  offer, 
she  would  not  accept  it  vrithout  her  father's  consent : 
she  would  always  be  true  to  Mr.  Freely,  but  she  would 
not  disobey  her  father.  For  Penny  was  a  good  girl, 
though  some  of  her  female  friends  were  afterwards  of 
opinion  that  it  spoke  ill  for  her  not  to  have  felt  an  in- 
stinctive repugnance  to  Mr.  Freely. 


298  BKOTIIEK   JACOB. 

But  he  was  cautions,  and  wished  to  he  quite  sure  of 
the  ground  he  trod  on.  His  views  in  marriage  were 
not  entirely  sentimental,  hut  were  as  duly  mingled  with 
considerations  of  what  would  be  advantageous  to  a  man 
in  his  position,  as  if  he  had  had  a  very  large  amount  of 
money  spent  on  his  education.  lie  was  not  a  man  to 
fall  in  love  in  the  wrong  place,  and  so  lie  applied  liim- 
sclf  quite  as  much  to  conciliate  the  favor  of  tlie  parents 
as  to  secure  the  attachment  of  Penny.  Mrs.  Palfrey 
had  not  been  inaccessible  to  flattery,  and  her  husband, 
being  also  of  mortal  mould,  would  not,  it  might  be 
hoped,  be  proof  against  rum— that  very  fine  Jamaica 
rum  of  which  Mr.  Freely  expected  always  to  have  a 
supply  sent  him  from  Jamaica.  It  was  not  easy  to  get 
Mr.  Palfrey  into  the  parlor  behind  the  shop,  where  a 
mild  back-street  light  fell  on  the  features  of  the  heroic 
admiral ;  but  by  getting  hold  of  him  rather  late  one 
evening,  as  he  was  about  to  return  home  from  Grim- 
worth,  the  aspiring  lover  succeeded  in  persuading  him 
to  sup  on  some  collared  beef  which,  after  Mrs.  Pal- 
frey's brawn,  he  would  find  the  very  best  of  cold  eat- 
ing. 

From  that  hour  Mr.  Freely  felt  sure  of  success :  be- 
ing in  privacy  with  an  estimable  man  old  enouirh  to  be 
his  father,  and  being  rather  lonely  in  the  world,  it  was 
natural  he  should  unbosom  himself  a  little  on  subjects 
which  he  could  not  speak  of  in  a  mixed  circle — espe- 
cially concerning  his  expectations  from  his  nncle  in  Ja- 
maica, who  had  no  children,  and  loved  his  nephew  Ed- 
ward better  than  any  one  else  in  the  world,  though  ho 
had  been  so  hurt  at  his  leaving  Jamaica  that  he  had 
threatened  to  cut  him  off  with  a  shillinw-.     However. 


BKOTHER   JACOB.  299 

lie  had  since  written  to  state  his  full  forgiveness,  and 
though  he  was  an  eccentric  old  gentleman  and  conid 
not  bear  to  give  away  money  during  his  life,  Mr.  Ed- 
ward Freely  could  show  Mr.  Palfrey  the  letter  which 
declared  plainly  enough  who  would  be  the  affectionate 
uncle's  heir.  Mr.  Palfrey  actually  saw  the  letter,  and 
could  not  help  admiring  the  spirit  of  the  nephew  who 
declared  that  such  brilliant  hopes  as  these  made  no  dif- 
ference to  his  conduct ;  he  should  work  at  his  humble 
business  and  make  his  modest  fortune  at  it  all  the  same. 
If  the  Jamaica  estate  was  to  come  to  him,  well  and 
good.  It  was  nothing  very  surprising-  for  one  of  the 
Freely  family  to  have  an  estate  left  him,  considering 
the  lands  that  family  had  possessed  in  time  gone  by 
— nay,  still  possessed  in  the  Northumberland  branch. 
Would  not  Mr.  Palfrey  take  another  glass  of  rum  ?  and 
also- look  at  the  last  year's  balance  of  the  accounts? 
Mr.  Freely  was  a  man  who  cared  to  possess  personal 
virtues,  and  did  not  pique  himself  on  his  family,  though 
some  men  would.  We  know  how  easily  the  great  Levi- 
athan may  be  led  when  once  there  is  a  hook  in  his  nose 
or  a  bridle  in  his  jaws.  Mr.  Palfrey  was  a  large  man, 
but,  like  Leviathan's,  his  bulk  went  against  him  when 
once  he  had  taken  a  turning.  He  was  not  a  mercurial 
man,  who  easily  changed  his  point  of  view.  Enough. 
Before  two  months  were  over  he  had  given  his  consent 
to  Mr.  Freely's  marriage  with  his  daughter  Penny,  and 
having  hit  on  a  formula  by  which  he  could  justify  it, 
fenced  off  all  doubts  and  objections,  his  own  included. 
The  formula  was  this :  "  I'm  not  a  man  to  put  my  nose 
up  an  entry  before  I  know  where  it  leads." 

Little   Penny   was   very   proud    and   fluttering,  but 


300  BROTUEli   JACOB.     , 

hardly  so  happy  as  she  expected  to  be  in  an  engage- 
incut.  She  wondered  if  young  Towers  cared  much 
about  it,  for  he  had  not  been  to  the  house  lately,  and 
lier  sister  and  brothers  were  rather  inclined  to  sneer 
than  to  sympathize.  Grim  worth  rang  with  the  news. 
All  men  extolled  Mr.  Freely's  good-fortune ;  while  the 
women,  with  the  tender  solicitude  characteristic  of  the 
sex,  wished  the  marriage  might  turn  out  well. 

While  affairs  were  at  this  triumphant  juncture,  Mr. 
Freely  one  morning  observed  that  a  stone-carver  who 
had  been  breakfasting  in  the  eating -room  had  left  a 
newspaper  behind.  It  w\as  the  X-shire  Gazette,  and 
X-shire  being  a  county  not  unknown  to  Mr.  Freely,  he 
felt  some  curiosity  to  glance  over  it,  and  especially  over 
the  advertisements.  A  slight  flush  came  over  his  face 
as  he  read.  It  w^as  produced  by  the  following  an- 
nouncement: "If  David  Faux,  son  of  Jonathan  Faux, 
late  of  Gilsbrook,  will  apply  at  the  office  of  Mr.  Strutt, 
attorney,  of  Rodliam,  he  will  hear  of  something  to  his 
advantange." 

"  Father's  dead  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Freely,  involuntarily. 
"  Can  he  have  left  me  a  legacy  ?" 


Chaptek  III. 

PERHArs  it  was  a  result  quite  different  from  your 
expectations  that  Mr.  David  Faux  should  have  returned 
from  the  West  Indies  only  a  few  years  after  his  arrival 
there,  and  have  set  up  in  his  old  business,  like  any  plain 
man  who  had  never  travelled.    But  these  cases  do  occur 


BKOTHER   JACOB.  SOI 

in  life.  Since,  as  we  know,  men  cluange  their  skies  and 
see  new  constellations  without  changing  their  souls, 
it  will  follow  sometimes  that  they  don't  change  their 
business  under  those  novel  circumstances. 

Certainly  this  result  was  contrary  to  David's  own  ex- 
pectations. He  had  looked  forward,  you  are  aware,  to 
a  brilliant  career  among  "the  blacks;"  but,  either  be- 
cause they  had  already  seen  too  many  white  men,  or 
for  some  other  reason,  they  did  not  at  once  recognize 
him  as  a  superior  order  of  human  being;  besides,  there 
were  no  princesses  among  them.  IsTobody  in  Jamaica 
was  anxious  to  maintain  David  for  the  mere  pleasure 
of  his  society ;  and  those  hidden  merits  of  a  man  which 
are  so  well  known  to  himself  were  as  little  recognized 
there  as  they  notoriously  are  in  the  effete  society  of  the 
Old  World.  So  that  in  the  dark  hints  that  David  threw 
out  at  the  Oyster  Club  about  that  life  of  Sultanic  self- 
indulgence  spent  by  him  in  the  luxurious  Indies,  I 
really  think  lie  was  doing  himself  a  wrong ;  I  believe 
he  worked  for  his  bread,  and,  in  fact,  took  to  cooking 
again,  as,  after  all,  the  only  department  in  which  he 
could  offer  skilled  labor.  He  had  formed  several  in- 
genious plans  by  which  he  meant  to  circumvent  people 
of  large  fortune  and  small  faculty ;  but  then  he  never 
met  with  exactly  the  right  people  under  exactly  the 
right  circumstances.  David's  devices  for  o^ettinsi:  rich 
without  work  had  apparently  no  direct  relation  with 
the  world  outside  him,  as  his  confectionery  receipts  had. 
It  is  possible  to  pass  a  great  many  bad  half-pennies  and 
bad  half-crowns,  but  I  believe  there  has  uo  instance 
been  known  of  passing  a  half-penny  or  a  half-crown  as 
a  sovereign.     A  sharper  can  drive  a  brisk  trade  in  this 


302 


BllOTIIER   JACOB, 


world:  it  is  undeTiiablc  that  tlierc  may  be  a  fine  career 
for  liim  if  he  will  dare  consequences ;  but  David  was 
too  timid  to  be  a  sharper,  or  venture  in  any  waj''  among 
the  man-traps  of  the  law.  He  dared  rob  nobody  but 
his  mother.  And  so  he  had  to  fall  back  on  the  genuine 
value  there  was  in  him — to  be  content  to  pass  as  a  good 
half-penny,  or,  to  speak  more  accurately,  as  a  good  con- 
fectioner. For  in  spite  of  some  additional  reading  and 
observation,  there  was  nothing  else  he  could  make  so 
much  money  by ;  nay,  he  found  in  himself  even  a  ca- 
pability of  extending  his  skill  in  this  direction,  and  em- 
bracing all  forms  of  cookery,  while  in  other  branches  of 
human  labor  lie  began  to  see  that  it  was  not  possible 
for  him  to  shine.  Fate  was  too  strong  for  him  ;  he  had 
thought  to  master  her  inclination,  and  had  fled  over  the 
seas  to  that  end ;  but  she  caught  him,  tied  an  apron 
round  him,  and  snatching  him  from  all  other  devices, 
made  him  devise  cakes  and  patties  in  a  kitchen  at 
Kingstown,  He  was  getting  submissive  to  her,  since 
she  paid  him  with  tolerable  gains ;  but  fevers  and 
prickly  heat,  and  other  evils  incidental  to  cooks  in  ar- 
dent climates,  made  him  long  for  his  native  land ;  so  he 
took  ship  once  more,  carrying  his  six  years'  savings,  and 
seeing  distinctly,  this  time,  what  were  fate's  intentions 
as  to  his  career.  If  you  question  me  closely  as  to 
whether  all  the  money  with  which  he  set  up  at  Grim- 
worth  consisted  of  pure  and  simple  earnings,  I  am 
obliged  to  confess  that  he  got  a  sum  or  two  for  chari- 
tably abstaining  from  mentioning  some  other  people's 
misdemeanors.  Altogether,  since  no  prospects  were  at- 
tached to  his  family  name,  and  since  a  new  christen- 
ing seemed  a  suitable  commencement  of  a  new  life, 


BROTHER   JACOB.  303 

Mr.  David  Faux  tliouglit  it  as  well  to  call  himself  Mr. 
Edward  Freely. 

But  lo!  now,  in  opposition  to  all  calculable  probabili- 
ty, some  benefit  appeared  to  be  attached  to  the  name  of 
David  Faux.  Should  he  neglect  it,  as  beneath  the  at- 
tention of  a  prosperous  tradesman  ?  It  might  bring  him 
into  contact  with  his  family  again,  and  he  felt  no  yearn- 
ings in  that  direction  ;  moreover,  he  had  small  belief 
that  the  "something  to  his  advantage"  could  be  any- 
thing considerable.  On  the  other  hand,  even  a  small 
gain  is  pleasant,  and  the  promise  of  it  in  this  instance 
was  so  surprising  that  David  felt  his  curiosity  awaken- 
ed. The  scale  dipped  at  last  on  the  side  of  writing  to 
the  lawyer,  and,  to  be  brief,  the  correspondence  ended 
in  an  appointment  for  a  meeting  between  David  and 
his  eldest  brother  at  Mr.  Strutt's,  the  vague  "  something" 
having  been  defined  as  a  legacy  from  his  father  of 
eighty-two  pounds  three  shillings. 

David,  you  know,  had  expected  to  be  disinherited ; 
and  so  he  would  have  been  if  he  had  not,  like  some 
other  indifferent  sons,  come  of  excellent  parents,  whose 
conscience  made  them  scrupulous,  where  much  more 
highly  instructed  people  often  feel  themselves  warrant- 
ed in  following  the  bent  of  their  indignation.  Good 
Mrs.  Faux  could  never  forget  that  she  had  brought  this 
ill-conditioned  son  into  the  world  when  he  was  in  that 
entirely  helpless  state  which  excluded  the  smallest  choice 
on  his  part ;  and,  somehow  or  other,  she  felt  that  his 
going  wrong  would  be  his  father's  and  mother's  fault, 
if  they  failed  in  one  tittle  of  their  parental  duty.  Her 
notion  of  parental  duty  was  not  of  a  high  and  subtle 
kind,  but  it  included  giving  him  his  due  share  of  tlio 


304:  BKOTUEK   JACOB. 

family  property  ;  for  when  a  man  had  got  a  little  honest 
money  of  his  own,  was  he  so  likely  to  steal  ?  To  cut 
the  delinqnent  son  off  with  a  shilling  was  like  deliver- 
ing him  over  to  his  evil  propensities.  No;  let  the 
sum  of  twenty  guineas  whieh  he  had  stolen  be  deducted 
from  his  share,  and  then  let  the  sum  of  three  guineas 
be  put  back  from  it,  seeing  that  his  mother  had  always 
considered  three  of  the  twenty  guineas  as  his ;  and 
though  he  had  run  away,  and  was,  perhaps,  gone  across 
the  sea,  let  the  money  be  left  to  him  all  the  same,  and 
be  kejit  in  reserve  for  his  possible  return.  Mr.  Faux 
agreed  to  his  wife's  views,  and  made  a  codicil  to  his 
will  accordingly,  in  time  to  die  with  a  clear  conscience. 
But  for  some  time  his  family  thought  it  likely  that 
David  would  never  re-appear,  and  the  eldest  son,  who 
had  the  charge  of  Jacob  on  his  hands,  often  thought  it 
a  little  hard  that  David  might  perhaps  be  dead,  and  yet 
for  want  of  certitude  on  that  point,  his  legacy  could  not 
fall  to  his  legal  heir.  But  in  this  state  of  things  the 
opposite  certitude — namely,  that  David  was  still  alive 
and  in  England — seemed  to  be  brought  by  the  testi- 
mony of  a  neighbor,  who,  having  been  on  a  journey  to 
Cattleton,  was  pretty  sure  he  had  seen  David  in  a  gig, 
with  a  stout  man  driving  by  his  side.  lie  could  "  swear 
it  was  David,"  though  he  could  "give  no  account  why, 
for  he  had  no  marks  on  him ;  but  no  more  had  a  white 
dog,  and  that  didn't  hinder  folks  from  knowing  a  white 
dog."  It  was  this  incident  which  had  led  to  the  adver- 
tisement. 

The  legacy  was  paid,  of  course,  after  a  few  prelimi- 
nary disclosures  as  to  Mr.  David's  actual  position.  He 
begged  to  send  his  love  to  his  mother,  and  to  say  that 


BEOTHER   JACOB.  305 

he  hoped  to  pay  her  a  dutiful  visit  by-and-by;  but  at 
present  his  business  and  near  prospect  of  marriage  made 
it  difficult  for  him  to  leave  home.  His  brother  replied 
with  much  frankness : 

"  My  mother  may  do  as  she  likes  about  having  you 
to  see  her,  but,  for  my  part,  I  don't  want  to  catch  sight 
of  you  on  the  premises  again.  When  folks  have  taken 
a  new  name,  they'd  better  keep  to  their  new  'quine- 
tance." 

David  pocketed  the  insult  along  with  the  eighty-two 
pounds  three,  and  travelled  home  again  in  some  triumph 
at  the  ease  of  a  transaction  which  liad  enriched  him  to 
this  extent.  He  had  no  intention  of  offending  his  broth- 
er by  further  claims  on  his  fraternal  recognition,  and 
relapsed  with  full  contentment  into  the  character  of 
Mr.  Edward  Freely,  the  orphan,  scion  of  a  great  but  re- 
duced family,  with  an  eccentric  uncle  in  the  "West  In- 
dies. (I  have  already  hinted  that  he  had  some  acquaint- 
ance with  imaginative  literature ;  and  being  of  a  prac- 
tical turn,  he  had,  you  perceive,  applied  even  this  form 
of  knowledge  to  practical  purposes.) 

It  was  little  more  tlian  a  week  after  the  return  from 
his  fruitful  journey,  that  the  day  of  his  marriage  with 
Penny  having  been  fixed,  it  was  agreed  that  Mrs.  Pal- 
frey should  overcome  her  reluctance  to  move  from 
home,  and  that  she  and  her  husband  should  bring  their 
two  daughters  to  inspect  little  Penny's  future  abode, 
and  decide  on  the  new  arrangements  to  be  made  for  the 
reception  of  the  bride.  Mr,  Freely  meant  her  to  have 
a  house  so  pretty  and  comfortable  that  she  need  not 
envy  even  a  wool-factor's  wife.  Of  course  the  upper 
room  over  the  sliop  was  to  l>e  the  best  sitting-room,  but 


30G  BROTHER   JACOB. 

also  the  ]>ar]or  behind  the  shop  was  to  be  made  a  suita- 
ble bower  for  the  lovely  Penny,  who  would  naturally 
wish  to  be  near  her  husband,  though  Mr.  Freely  de- 
clared his  resolution  never  to  allow  his  wife  to  wait  in 
the  shop.  The  decisions  about  the  parlor  furniture 
were  left  till  last,  because  the  party  was  to  take  tea 
there ;  and,  about  five  o'clock,  they  were  all  seated  there 
M'ith  the  best  muffins  and  buttered  buns  before  them, 
little  Penny  blushing  and  smiling,  with  her  "crop"  in 
the  best  order,  and  a  blue  frock  showing  her  little  white 
shoulders,  while  her  opinion  was  being  always  asked 
and  never  given.  She  secretly  wished  to  have  a  partic- 
ular sort  of  chimney  ornaments,  but  she  could  not  have 
brought  herself  to  mention  it.  Seated  by  the  side  of 
her  yellow  and  rather  withered  lover,  who,  though  he 
had  not  reached  his  thirtieth  year,  had  already  crow's- 
feet  about  his  eyes,  she  was  quite  tremulous  at  the 
greatness  of  her  lot,  being  married  to  a  man  who  had 
travelled  so  much — and  before  her  sister  Letty !  The 
handsome  Letitia  looked  rather  proud  and  contemptuous, 
thought  her  future  brother-in-law  an  odious  person,  and 
was  vexed  with  her  father  and  mother  for  letting  Penny 
marry  him.  Dear  little  Penny  !  She  certainly  did  look 
like  a  fresh  white-heart  cherry  going  to  be  bitten  oflE 
the  stem  by  that  lipless  mouth.  AVould  no  deliverer 
come  to  make  a  slip  between  that  cherry  and  that  mouth 
without  a  lip? 

"  Quite  a  family  likeness  between  tlic  admiral  and 
you,  Mr.  Freely,"  observed  Mrs.  Palfrey,  who  was  look- 
ing at  the  family  portrait  for  the  first  time.  "  It's  won- 
derful !  and  only  a  grand-uncle.  Do  you  feature  the 
rest  of  your  family,  as  you  know  of?" 


BKOTUER   JACOB.  307 

"I  can't  say,"  said  Mr.  Freely,  with  a  sigli.  "My 
family  have  iiiostl}'  thought  themselves  too  high  to  take 
any  notice  of  me." 

At  this  moment  an  extraordinary  disturbance  was 
heard  in  the  shop,  as  of  a  heavy  animal  stamping  about 
and  making  angry  noises,  and  then  of  a  glass  vessel 
falling  in  shivers,  while  the  voice  of  the  apprentice  was 
heard  calling  "Master"  in  great  alarm, 

Mr.  Freely  rose  in  anxious  astonishment,  and  hast- 
ened into  the  shop,  follow^ed  by  the  four  Palfreys,  who 
made  a  group  at  the  parlor  door,  transfixed  with  w-on- 
der  at  seeing  a  large  man  in  a  smock-frock,  with  a  pitch- 
fork in  his  hand,  rush  up  to  Mr.  Freely  and  hug  him, 
crj'ing  out,  "  Zav}'-,  Zavy,  b'other  Zavy !" 

It  was  Jacob,  and  for  some  moments  David  lost  all 
presence  of  mind.  He  felt  arrested  for  having  stolen 
his  mother's  guineas.  He  turned  cold,  and  trembled  in 
his  brother's  grasp. 

"  Why,  howl's  this  ?"  said  Mr.  Palfrey,  advancing  from 
the  door.     "  Who  is  he  ?" 

Jacob  supplied  the  answer  by  saying  over  and  over 
again, 

"  I'se  Zacob,  b'other  Zacob.  Come  'o  zee  Zavy  " — till 
hunger  prompted  him  to  relax  his  grasp,  and  to  seize  a 
large  raised  pie,  which  he  lifted  to  his  mouth. 

By  this  time  David's  power  of  device  had  begun  to 
return,  but  it  was  a  very  hard  task  for  his  prudence  to 
master  his  rage  and  hatred  towards  poor  Jacob. 

"I  don't  know  who  he  is;  he  must  be  drunk,"  he 
said,  in  a  low  tone  to  Mr.  Palfrey.  "  But  he's  danger- 
ous with  that  pitchfork.  He'll  never  let  it  go."  Then 
checking  himself  on  the  point  of  betraying  too  great  an 


308  BROTHER  'JACOB. 

intimacy  with  Jacob's  habits,  lie  added :  "  Yoic  watch 
him,  wliile  I  run  for  the  constable."  And  lie  hurried 
out  of  the  sliop. 

"  Why,  where  do  3'ou  come  from,  my  man  ?"  said  Mr. 
Palfrey,  speaking  to  Jacob  in  a  conciliatory  tone.  Ja- 
cob was  eating  his  pie  by  large  mouthfiils,  and  looking 
round  at  the  other  good  things  in  the  shop,  while  he 
embraced  his  pitchfork  with  his  left  arm,  and  laid  his 
left  hand  on  some  Bath  buns.  lie  was  in  the  rare  po- 
sition of  a  person  who  recovers  a  long-absent  friend  and 
finds  him  richer  than  ever  in  the  characteristics  that 
won  his  heart. 

"I'se  Zacob — b'other  Zacob — 't  home.  I  love  Zavy 
— b'other  Zavy,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  Mr.  Palfrey  had 
drawn  his  attention.  "Zavy  come  back  from  z'  Indies 
— got  mother's  zinnies.  Where's  Zavy  ?"  he  added,  look- 
ing round,  and  then  turning  to  the  others  with  a  ques- 
tioning air,  puzzled  by  David's  disappearance. 

"  It's  very  odd,"  observed  Mr.  Palfrey  to  his  wife  and 
daughters.  "  lie  seems  to  say  Freely's  his  brother  come 
back  from  th'  Indies." 

"  What  a  pleasant  relation  for  us !"  said  Letitia,  sar- 
castically. "  I  think  he's  a  good  deal  like  Mr.  Freel3^ 
He's  got  just  the  same  sort  of  nose,  and  his  eyes  are  the 
same  color," 

Poor  Penny  was  ready  to  cry. 

But  now  Mr.  Freely  re-entered  the  shop  without  the 
constable.  During  his  walk  of  a  few  yards  he  had  had 
time  and  calmness  enough  to  widen  his  view  of  conse- 
quences, and  he  saw  that  to  get  Jacob  taken  to  the 
workhouse  or  to  the  lock-up  house  as  an  offensive  stran- 
ger, might  have  awkward  effects  if  his  family  took  the 


BKOTIIEE  JACOB.  309 

trouble  of  inquiring  after  him.  He  must  resign  him- 
self to  more  patient  measures. 

"On  second  thoughts,"  he  said,  beckoning  to  Mr. 
Palfrey,  and  whispering  to  him  while  Jacob's  back  was 
turned,  "he's  a  poor  half-witted  fellow.  Perhaps  his 
friends  will  come  after  him.  I  don't  mind  giving  him 
something  to  eat,  and  letting  him  lie  down  for  the  night, 
lie's  got  it  into  his  head  that  he  knows  me — they  do 
get  these  fancies,  idiots  do.  He'll  perhaps  go  away 
again  in  an  hour  or  two,  and  make  no  more  ado.  Pm 
a  kind-hearted  man  myself — I  shouldn't  like  to  have  the 
poor  fellow  ill-used." 

"Why,  he'll  eat  a  sovereign's  worth  in  no  time,"  said 
Mr.  Palfrey,  thinking  Mr.  Freely  a  little  too  magnificent 
in  his  generosity. 

"Eh,  Zavy,  come  back?"  exclaimed  Jacob,  giving  his 
dear  brother  another  hng,  which  crushed  Mr.  Freely 's 
features  inconveniently  against  the  handle  of  the  pitch- 
fork. 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  Mr.  Freely,  smiling,  with  every  capa- 
bility of  murder  in  his  mind,  except  the  courage  to  com- 
mit it.  He  wished  the  Bath  buns  might  by  chance 
have  arsenic  in  them. 

"  Mother's  dnnies  ?"  said  Jacob,  pointing  to  a  glass 
jar  of  yellow  lozenges  that  stood  in  the  window.  "  Zive 
'em  me." 

David  dared  not  do  otherwise  than  reach  down  the 
glass  jar  and  give  Jacob  a  handful.  He  received  them 
in  his  smock-frock,  which  he  held  out  for  more. 

"  They'll  keep  him  quiet  a  bit,  at  any  rate,"  thought 
David,  and  emptied  the  jar.  Jacob  grinned  and  mowed 
with  delight. 


310  BROTHER  JACOB. 

"  Yon'ro  very  f^ood  to  this  stranger,  Mr.  Freely,"  said 
Lctitia;  and  then  spitefully,  as  David  joined  the  party 
at  the  parlor  door,  "I  think  3^011  could  hardly  treat  him 
better  if  he  was  really  your  brother." 

"I've  always  thought  it  a  duty  to  be  good  to  idiots," 
said  Mr.  Freely,  striving  after  the  most  moral  view  of 
the  subject.  "We  might  have  been  idiots  ourselves — 
everybody  might  have  been  born  idiots,  instead  of  bav- 
ins: their  ric-lit  senses." 

"  I  don't  know  where  there'd  ha'  been  victual  for  ns 
all,  then,"  observed  Mrs.  Palfrey,  regarding  the  matter 
in  a  housewifely  light. 

"  But  let  ns  sit  down  again  and  finish  our  tea,"  said 
Mr.  Freely.  "Let  us  leave  the  poor  creature  to  him- 
self." 

They  walked  into  the  parlor  again ;  but  Jacob,  not 
apparently  appreciating  the  kindness  of  leaving  him  to 
himself,  immediately  followed  his  brother,  and  seated 
himself,  pitchfork  grounded,  at  the  table. 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Letitia,  rising,  "I  don't  know 
whether  you  mean  to  stay,  mother,  but  I  shall  go 
home." 

"  Oh,  me  too,"  said  Penny,  frightened  to  death  at 
Jacob,  who  had  begun  to  nod  and  grin  at  her. 

"  Well,  I  think  we  had  better  be  going,  Mr.  Palfrey," 
said  the  mother,  rising  more  slowly. 

Mr.  Freely,  whose  complexion  had  become  decidedly 
yellower  during  the  last  half  hour,  did  not  resist  this 
proposition.  He  hoped  they  should  meet  again  "  under 
happier  circumstances." 

"  It's  my  belief  the  man's  his  brother,"  said  Letitia, 
when  they  were  all  on  their  way  home. 


BROTHER   JACOB.  311 

"  Letty,  it's  ycry  ill-natured  of  you,"  said  Penny,  be- 
ginning to  cry. 

"Nonsense!"  said  Mr.  Palfrey.  "Frecly's  got  no 
brother ;  he's  said  so  many  and  many  a  time.  lie's  an 
orphan;  he's  got  nothing  but  uncles  —  leastwise  one. 
What's  it  matter  what  an  idiot  says?  What  call  had 
Freely  to  tell  lies  ?" 

Letitia  tossed  her  head  and  was  silent. 

Mr.  Freely,  left  alone  with  his  affectionate  brother 
Jacob,  brooded  over  the  possibility  of  luring  him  out  of 
the  town  early  the  next  morning,  and  getting  him  con- 
veyed to  Gilsbrook  without  further  betrayals.  But  the 
thing  was  difficult.  He  saw  clearly  that  if  he  took  Ja- 
cob away  himself,  his  absence,  conjoined  with  the  dis- 
appearance of  the  stranger,  would  either  cause  the  con- 
viction that  he  was  really  a  relative,  or  would  oblige 
him  to  the  dangerous  course  of  inventing  a  story  to  ac- 
count for  his  disappearance  and  his  own  absence  at  the 
same  time.  David  2jroaned.  There  come  occasions 
when  falsehood  is  felt  to  be  inconvenient.  It  would, 
perhaps,  have  been  a  longer-headed  device  if  he  had 
never  told  any  of  those  clever  fibs  about  his  uncles, 
grand  and  otherwise;  for  the  Palfreys  were  simple  peo- 
ple, and  shared  the  popular  prejudice  against  lying. 
Even  if  he  could  get  Jacob  away  this  time,  what  secu- 
rity was  there  that  he  would  not  come  again,  having  once 
found  the  way  ?  O  guineas  !  O  lozenges  !  what  envia- 
ble people  those  were  who.  had  never  robbed  their  moth- 
ers and  had  never  told  fibs !  David  spent  a  sleepless 
night,  while  Jacob  was  snoring  close  by.  Was  this  the 
upshot  of  travelling  to  the  Indies,  and  acquiring  expe- 
rience combined  with  anecdote  ? 


312  •        BEOTHER   JACOB. 

He  rose  at  break  of  day,  as  he  had  once  before  done 
"vvlien  he  was  in  fear  of  Jacob,  and  took  all  gentle  means 
to  rouse  him  from  his  deep  sleep ;  he  dared  not  be  lond, 
because  his  apprentice  was  in  the  house,  and  would  re- 
port everything.  But  Jacob  was  not  to  be  roused,  lie 
fought  out  with  his  fist  at  the  unknown  cause  of  dis- 
turbance, turned  over,  and  snored  again.  lie  must  be 
left  to  wake  as  he  would.  David,  with  a  cold  perspira- 
tion on  his  brow,  confessed  to  himself  that  Jacob  could 
not  be  got  away  that  day. 

Mr.  Palfrey  came  over  to  Griraworth  before  noon, 
with  a  natural  curiosity  to  see  how  his  future  son-in- 
law  got  on  with  the  stranger  to  whom  he  was  so  benev- 
olently inclined.  lie  found  a  crowd  round  the  shop. 
All  Grimworth  by  this  time  had  heard  how  Freely  had 
been  fastened  on  by  an  idiot,  who  called  hiin  "Brother 
Zavy;"  and  the  younger  population  seemed  to  find  the 
singular  stranger  an  unwearying  source  of  fascination, 
while  the  householders  dropped  in  one  by  one  to  inquire 
into  the  incident. 

"Why  don't  you  send  him  to  the  workhouse?"  said 
Mr.  Pretty  man.  "  You'll  have  a  row  with  him  and  the 
children  presently,  and  he'll  eat  you  up.  The  work- 
house is  the  proper  place  for  him  ;  let  his  kin  claim  him 
if  he's  got  any." 

"  Those  may  be  your  feelings,  Mr.  Prettyman,"  said 
David,  his  mind  quite  enfeebled  by  the  torture  of  his 
position, 

"  What,  is  he  your  brother,  then  ?"  said  Mr.  Pretty- 
man,  looking  at  his  neighbor  Freely  rather  sharply. 

"All  men  are  our  brothers,  and  idiots  particular 
so,"  said  Mr.  Freely,  who,  like  many  other  men  of  ex- 


BKOTIIEK   JACOB.  313 

tensive  knowledge,  was  not  master  of  the  English  lan- 
guage. 

"  Come,  come,  if  he's  your  brother,  tell  the  truth,  man," 
said  Mr.  Prettjman,  with  growing  suspicion.  "  Don't  be 
ashamed  of  your  own  flesh  and  blood." 

Mr,  Palfrey  was  present,  and  also  had  his  eye  on 
Freely.  It  is  difficult  for  a  man  to  believe  in  the  ad- 
vantage of  a  truth  which  will  disclose  him  to  have 
been  a  liar.  In  this  critical  moment  David  shrank 
from  this  immediate  disgrace  in  the  eyes  of  his  future 
fatlier-in-law. 

"Mr.  Prettyman,"  he  said,  "I  take  your  observations 
as  an  insult.  I've  no  reason  to  be  otherwise  than  proud 
of  my  own  flesh  and  blood.  If  this  poor  man  was  my 
brother  more  than  all  men  are,  I  should  say  so." 

A  tall  figure  darkened  the  door,  and  David,  lifting  his 
eyes  in  that  direction,  saw  his  eldest  brother,  Jonathan, 
on  the  door-sill. 

"I'll  stay  wi'  Zavy,"  shouted  Jacob,  as  he,  too,  caught 
sight  of  his  eldest  brother,  and  running  behind  the 
counter  he  clutched  David  hard. 

"  What,  he  is  here  ?"  said  Jonathan  Faux,  coming  for- 
ward. "  My  mother  would  have  no  naj^,  as  he'd  been 
away  so  long,  but  I  must  see  after  him.  And  it  struck 
me  he  was  very  like  come  after  you,  because  we'd  been 
talking  of  you  o'  late,  and  where  you  lived." 

David  saw  there  was  no  escape;  he  smiled  a  ghastly 
smile. 

"  What,  is  this  a  relation  of  yours,  sir?"  said  Mr.  Pal- 
frey to  Jonathan, 

"Ay,  it's  my  inniccnt  of  a  brother,  sure  enough," 

said  honest  Jonathan.     "A  fine  trouble  and  cost  he  is 
2S*  ^** 


314  BROTHEK   JACOB. 

to  US  in  til'  eating  and  other  things,  but  we  must  bear 
what's  hiid  on  us." 

"And  your  name's  Freely,  is  it?"  said  Mr.  Pretty- 
man. 

"  ISTa}',  nay,  my  name's  Faux ;  I  know  nothing  o' 
Freelys,"  said  Jonathan,  curtly.  "  Come,"  he  added, 
turning  to  David,  "I  must  take  some  news  to  mother 
about  Jacob.  Shall  I  take  him  with  me,  or  will  you  un- 
dertake to  send  him  back?" 

"  Take  him,  if  yoa  can  make  him  loose  his  hold  of 
me,"  said  David,  feebly. 

"Is  this  gentleman  here  in  the  confectionery  line 
your  brother,  then,  sir?"  said  Mr.  Prettyman,  feeling 
that  it  was  an  occasion  on  which  formal  lano-nas-e  must 
be  used. 

"/don't  want  to  own  him,"  said  Jonathan,  unable  to 
resist  a  movement  of  indic-nation  that  had  never  been 
allowed  to  satisfy  itself.  "lie  run  away  from  home 
with  good  reasons  in  his  pocket  years  ago ;  he  didn't 
want  to  be  owned  again,  I  reckon." 

Mr.  Palfrey  left  the  shop ;  he  felt  his  own  pride  too 
severely  wounded  by  the  sense  that  he  had  let  himself 
be  fooled  to  feel  curiosity  for  further  details.  The  most 
pressing  business  was  to  go  home  and  tell  his  daughter 
that  Freely  was  a  poor  sneak,  probably  a  rascal,  and  that 
her  engagement  was  broken  off. 

Mr.  Prettyman  stayed,  with  some  internal  self-gratu- 
lation  that  he  had  never  given  in  to  Freely,  and  that  Mr. 
Chaloner  would  see  now  what  sort  of  fellow  it  was  that 
he  had  put  over  the  heads  of  older  parishioners.  He 
considered  it  due  from  hini  (Mr.  Prettyman)  that,  for 
the  interests  of  the  parish,  he  should  know  all  that  was 


BEOTHEK   JACOB.  315 

to  be  known  about  this  "  interloper."  Grimwortli  would 
have  people  coming  from  Botany  Bay  to  settle  in  it,  if 
things  went  on  in  this  way; 

It  soon  appeared  that  Jacob  could  not  be  made  to  quit 
his  dear  brother  David  except  by  force.  He  understood, 
with  a  clearness  equal  to  that  of  the  most  intelligent 
mind,  that  Jonathan  would  take  him  back  to  skimmed 
milk,  apple-dumpling,  broad-beans,  and  pork.  And  he 
had  found  a  paradise  in  his  brother's  shop.  It  was  a 
difficult  matter  to  use  force  with  Jacob,  for  he  wore 
heavy,  nailed  boots ;  and  if  his  pitchfork  had  been  mas- 
tered, he  would  have  resorted  without  hesitation  to  kicks. 
Nothing  short  of  using  guile  to  bind  him  hand  and  foot 
would  have  made  all  parties  safe. 

"  Let  him  stay,"  said  David,  with  desperate  resigna- 
tion, frightened  above  all  things  at  the  idea  of  fnrther 
disturbances  in  his  shop  which  would  make  his  exposure 
all  the  more  conspicuous.  "  You  go  away  again,  and  to- 
morrow I  can,  perhaps,  get  him  to  go  to  Gilsbrook  with 
me.  He'll  follow  me  fast  enough,  I  dare  say,"  he  added, 
with  a  half  groan. 

"Yery  well,"  said  Jonathan,  gruffly.  "I  don't  see 
why  you  shouldn't  have  some  trouble  and  expense  with 
him  as  \^ell  as  the  rest  of  us.  But  mind  you  bring  him 
back  safe  and  soon,  else  mother  '11  never  rest." 

On  this  arrangement  being  concluded,  Mr.  Prettyman 
begged  Mr.  Jonathan  Faux  to  go  and  take  a  snack  with 
him — an  invitation  which  was  quite  acceptable ;  and  as 
honest  Jonathan  had  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of,  it  is 
probable  that  he  was  very  frank  in  his  communications 
to  the  civil  draper,  who,  pursuing  the  benefit  of  the 
parish,  hastened  to  make  all  the  information  ho  could 


316  BKOTIIEE   JACOB. 

gather  about  Freelj'  common  parochial  property.  You 
may  imagine  that  the  meeting  of  the  chib  at  the  "Wool- 
pack  that  evening  was  unusually  lively.  -  Every  member 
was  anxious  to  prove  that  he  had  never  liked  Freely,  as 
he  called  himself.  Faux  was  his  name,  was  it?  Fox 
would  have  been  more  suitable.  The  majority  expressed 
a  desire  to  see  him  hooted  out  of  the  town. 

Mr.  Freely  did  not  venture  over  his  door-sill  that 
day,  for  he  knew  Jacob  would  keep  at  his  side,  and 
there  was  every  probability  that  they  would  have  a 
train  of  juvenile  followers.  lie  sent  to  engage  the 
Woolpack  gig  for  an  early  hour  the  next  morning ;  but 
this  order  was  not  kept  religiously  a  secret  by  the  land- 
lord. Mr.  Freely  was  informed  that  he  could  not  have 
the  gig  till  seven  ;  and  the  Grimworth  people  were 
early  risers.  Perhaps  they  were  more  alert  than  usual 
on  this  particular  morning ;  for  when  Jacob,  with  a  bag 
of  sweets  in  his  hand,  was  induced  to  mount  the  gig 
with  his  brother  David,  the  inhabitants  of  the  market- 
place were  looking  out  of  their  doors  and  windows,  and 
at  the  turning  of  the  street  there  was  even  a  muster  of 
apprentices  and  school-boys,  who  shouted  as  they  passed 
in  what  Jacob  took  to  be  a  very  merry  and  friendly 
way,  nodding  and  grinning  in  return.  "  Ilnzzay,  Da- 
vid Faux,  how's  your  uncle?"  was  their  morning's 
greeting.  Like  other  pointed  things,  it  was  not  alto- 
gether impromptu. 

Even  this  public  derision  was  not  so  crushing  to  Da- 
vid as  the  horrible  thought,  that  though  he  might  suc- 
ceed now  in  getting  Jacob  home  again,  there  would 
never  be  any  security  against  his  coming  back,  like  a 
wasp  to  the  honey-pot.     As  long  as  David  lived  at 


BKOTIIEK   JACOB.  317 

Grimwortli,  Jacob's  return  would  be  lianging  over  him. 
But  could  he  go  on  living  at  Grimwortli — an  object  of 
ridicule,  discarded  bj  the  Palfreys,  after  having  revelled 
in  the  consciousness  that  he  was  an -envied  and  pros- 
perous confectioner?  David  liked  to  be  envied;  ho 
minded  less  about  being  loved. 

His  doubts  on  this  point  were  soon  settled.  The 
mind  of  Grimwortli  became  obstinately  set  against  him 
and  his  viands,  and  tho  new  school  being  finished,  the 
eating-room  was  closed.  If  there  had  been  no  other 
reason,  sympathy  with  the  Palfreys,  that  respectable 
family  who  had  lived  in  the  parish  time  out  of  mind, 
would  have  determined  all  well-to-do  people  to  decline 
Freely's  goods.  Besides,  he  had  absconded  with  his 
mother's  guineas:  who  knew  what  else  he  had  done,  in 
Jamaica  or  elsewhere,  before  he  came  to  Grimwortli, 
worming  liimself  into  families  under  false  pretences? 
Females  shuddered.  Dire  suspicions  gathered  round 
him:  his  green  eyes,  his  bow- legs,  had  a  criminal  as- 
pect. The  rector  disliked  the  sight  of  a  man  who 
had  imposed  upon  him  ;  and  all  boys  who  could  not 
afford  to  purchase  hooted  "  David  Faux  "  as  they  passed 
his  shop.  Certainly  no  man  now  would  pay  anything 
for  the  "good -will"  of  Mr.  Freely's  business,  and  he 
would  be  obliged  to  quit  it  without  a  peculium  so  de- 
sirable towards  defraying  the  expense  of  moving. 

In  a  few  months  the  shop  in  the  market-place  was 
again  to  let,  and  Mr.  David  Faux,  cdias  Edward  Free- 
ly, had  gone  —  nobody  at  Grimwortli  knew  whither. 
In  this  way  the  demoralization  of  Grimwortli  women 
was  checked.  Young  Mrs.  Steene  renewed  her  efforts 
to  make  light  mince-pies,  and   having  at  last  made  a 


318  BROTHER   JACOB. 

batch  so  excellent  that  Mr.  Stecne  looked  at  her  with 
complacency  as  he  ate  them,  and  said  they  were  the 
best  he  had  ever  eaten  in  his  life,  she  thought  less  of 
bulbuls  and  renegades  ever  after.  The  secrets  of  the 
finer  cookery  were  revived  in  the  breasts  of  matronly 
housewives,  and  daughters  were  again  anxious  to  bo 
initiated  in  them. 

You  will  further,  I  hope,  be  glad  to  hear  that  some 
purchases  of  drapery  made  by  pretty  Penny,  in  prepa- 
ration for  her  marriage  with  Mr.  Freel}'^,  came  in  quite 
as  well  for  her  wedding  with  young  Towers  as  if  they 
had  been  made  expressly  for  the  latter  occasion.  For 
Penny's  complexion  had  not  altered,  and  blue  always 
became  it  best. 

Here  ends  the  story  of  Mr.  David  Faux,  confectioner, 
and  his  brother  Jacob.  And  we  see  in  it,  I  think,  an 
admirable  instance  of  the  unexpected  forms  in  which 
the  great  Nemesis  hides  herself. 


THE  LIFTED  VEIL 


THE   LIFTED  VEIL. 

"Give  me  no  light,  great  Heaven,  but  such  as  turns 
To  energy  of  human  fellowship  ; 
No  powers  beyond  the  growing  heritage 
That  makes  completer  manhood." — G.  E. 

Chapter  I. 

The  time  of  my  end  approaches.  I  liave  lately  been 
subject  to  attacks  of  angina  pectoris,  and  in  the  ordi- 
nary course  of  things,  my  physician  tells  me,  I  may 
fairly  hope  that  my  life  will  not  be  protracted  many 
months.  Unless,  then,  I  am  cursed  with  an  exceptional 
physical  constitution,  as  I  am  cnrsed  with  an  exceptional 
mental  character,  I  shall  not  much  longer  groan  under 
the  wearisome  burden  of  this  earthly  existence.  If  it 
were  to  be  otherwise  —  if  I  were  to  live  on  to  the  age 
most  men  desire  and  provide  for — I  should  for  once  have 
known  whether  the  miseries  of  delusive  expectation  can 
outweigh  the  miseries  of  true  prevision.  For  I  foresee 
when  I  shall  die,  and  everything  that  will  happen  in 
my  last  moments. 

Just  a  month  from  this  day,  on  the  20th  of  Septem- 
ber, 1850,  I  shall  be  sitting  in  this  chair,  in  this  study, 
at  ten  o'clock  at  night,  longing  to  die,  weary  of  incessant 
insight  and  foresight,  without  delusions  and  without 
hope.     Just  as  I  am  watching  a  tongue  of  blue  flame 


322  THE   LIFTED    VEIL, 

rising  in  the  fire,  and  my  lamp  is  burning  low,  the  lior- 
riblc  contraction  will  begin  at  my  clicst.  I  shall  only 
have  time  to  reach  the  bell,  and  pull  it  violently,  before 
the  sense  of  suffocation  will  come.  No  one  answers  my 
bell.  I  know  why.  My  two  servants  are  lovers,  and 
will  have  quarrelled.  My  house-keeper  wnll  have  rushed 
out  of  the  house  in  a  furj^,  two  hours  before,  hoping 
that  Perry  will  believe  she  has  gone  to  drown  herself. 
Perry  is  alarmed  at  last,  and  is  gone  out  after  her.  The 
little  scullery-maid  is  asleep  on  a  bench  ;  she  never  an- 
swers the  bell ;  it  does  not  wake  her.  The  sense  of  suf- 
focation increases ;  my  lamp  goes  out  with  a  horrible 
stench ;  I  make  a  great  effort,  and  snatch  at  the  bell 
again.  I  long  for  life,  and  there  is  no  help.  I  thirsted 
for  the  unknown ;  the  thirst  is  gone.  O  God,  let  mo 
stay  with  the  known,  and  be  weary  of  it!  I  am  content. 
Agony  of  pain  and  suffocation — and  all  the  while  the 
earth,  the  fields,  the  pebbly  brook  at  the  bottom  of  the 
rookery,  the  fresh  scent  after  the  rain,  the  light  of  the 
morning  through  my  chamber  window,  the  warmth  of 
the  hearth  after  the  frosty  air — will  darkness  close  over 
them  forever? 

Darkness — darkness — no  pain — nothing  but  darkness; 
but  I  am  passing  on  and  on  through  the  darkness ;  my 
thought  stays  in  the  darkness,  but  always  with  a  sense 
of  moving  onward.  .  .  o 

Before  that  time  comes  I  wish  to  use  my  last  hours 
of  ease  and  strength  in  telling  the  strange  story  of  my 
experience.  I  have  never  fully  unbosomed  myself  to 
any  human  being ;  I  have  never  been  encouraged  to 
trust  much  in  the  sympathy  of  my  fellow-men.  But  we 
have  all  a  chance  of  meeting  with  some  pity,  some  ten- 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL.  323 

derness,  some  charity,  when  we  arc  dead ;  it  is  the  living 
only  who  cannot  be  forgiven — the  living  only  from  whom 
men's  indulgence  and  reverence  are  held  off,  like  the 
rain  by  the  hard  east  wind.  While  the  heart  beats, 
bruise  it  —  it  is  your  only  opportunity;  while  the  eye 
can  still  turn  towards  you  with  moist,  timid  entreaty, 
freeze  it  with  an  icy,  unanswering  gaze ;  while  the  ear, 
that  delicate  messenger  to  the  inmost  sanctuary  of  the 
soul,  can  still  take  in  the  tones  of  kindness,  put  it  off 
with  hard  civility,  or  sneering  compliment,  or  envious 
affectation  of  indifference ;  while  the  creative  brain  can 
still  throb  with  the  sense  of  injustice,  with  the  yearning 
for  brotherly  recognition — make  haste — oppress  it  with 
your  ill-considered  judgments,  your  trivial  comparisons, 
your  careless  misrepresentations.  The  heart  will  by-and- 
by  be  still  —  uhi  smva  indignatio  ulterius  cor  lacerare 
nequit;'^  the  eye  will  cease  to  entreat;  the  ear  will  be 
deaf ;  the  brain  will  have  ceased  from  all  wants  as  well 
as  from  all  work.  Then  your  charitable  speeches  may 
find  vent;  then  you  may  remember  and  pity  the  toil 
and  the  struggle  and  tlie  failure;  then  yon  may  give  due 
honor  to  the  work  achieved ;  then  you  may  find  exten- 
uation for  errors,  and  consent  to  bury  tliem. 

That  is  a  "  trivial  school-boy  text ;"  why  do  I  dwell  on 
it?  It  has  little  reference  to  me,  for  I  shall  leave  no 
works  behind  me  for  men  to  honor.  I  have  no  near 
relatives  who  will  make  up,  by  weeping  over  my  grave, 
for  the  wounds  they  inflicted  on  me  when  I  was  among 
them.  It  is  only  the  story  of  my  life  that  will  perhaps 
win  a  little  more  sympathy  from  strangers  when  I  am 

*  Inscription  on  Swift's  tombstone. 


324  THE    LIFTED    VEIL. 

dead,  than  I  ever  believed  it  would  obtain  from  my 
friends  while  I  was  living. 

My  childhood  perliaps  seems  happier  to  me  than  it 
really  was,  by  contrast  with  all  the  after-years.  For  then 
the  curtain  of  the  future  was  as  impenetrable  to  me  as 
to  other  children.  I  had  all  their  delight  in  the  present 
hour,  their  sweet  indefinite  hopes  for  the  morro\y,  and 
I  had  a  tender  mother.  Even  now,  after  the  dreary 
lapse  of  long  years,  a  slight  trace  of  sensation  accompa- 
nies the  remembrance  of  her  caress  as  she  held  me  on 
her  knee,  her  arms  round  my  little  bod}',  her  cheek 
pressed  on  mine.  I  had  a  complaint  of  the  eyes  that 
made  me  blind  for  a  little  while,  and  she  kept  me  on 
her  knee  from  morning  till  night.  That  unequalled 
love  soon  vanished  out  of  my  life,  and  even  to  my  child- 
ish consciousness  it  was  as  if  that  life  had  become  more 
chill.  I  rode  my  little  white  pony  with  the  groom  by 
my  side  as  before,  but  there  were  no  loving  eyes  looking 
at  me  as  I  mounted,  no  glad  arms  opened  to  me  when 
I  came  back.  Perhaps  I  missed  my  mother's  love  more 
than  most  children  of  seven  or  eight  would  have  done, 
to  whom  the  other  pleasures  of  life  remained  as  before, 
for  I  was  certainly  a  very  sensitive  child.  I  remember 
still  the  mingled  trepidation  and  delicious  excitement 
with  which  I  was  affected  by  the  tramping  of  the  horses 
on  the  pavement  in  the  echoing  stables,  by  the  loud  res- 

ance  of  the  grooms'  voices,  by  the  booming  bark  of 
the  dogs  as  my  father's  carriage  thundered  under  the 
archway  of  the  court-yard,  by  the  din  of  the  gong  as  it 
gave  notice  of  luncheon  and  dinner.  The  measured 
tramp  of  soldiery  which  I  sometimes  heard — for  my  fa- 
ther's house  lay  near  a  county  town  where  there  were 


THE   LIFTED    VEIL.  325 

large  barracks — made  me  sob  and  tremble ;  and  yet  when 
they  were  gone  past  I  longed  for  them  to  come  back 
again. 

I  fancy  my  father  thought  me  an  odd  child,  and  had 
little  fondness  for  me,  though  he  was  very  careful  in 
fulfilling  what  he  regarded  as  a  parent's  duties.  But 
he  was  already  past  the  middle  of  life,  and  I  was  not  his 
only  son.  My  mother  had  been  his  second  wife,  and  he 
was  five-and-forty  when  he  married  her.  He  was  a  firm, 
unbending,  intensely  orderly  man,  in  root  and  stem  a 
banker,  but  with  a  flourishing  graft  of  the  active  land- 
holder, aspiring  to  county  influence :  one  of  those  peo- 
ple who  are  always  like  themselves  from  day  to  day, 
who  are  uninfluenced  by  the  weather,  and  neither  know 
melancholy  nor  high  spirits.  I  held  him  in  great  awe, 
and  appeared  more  timid  and.  sensitive  in  his  presence 
than  at  other  times  —  a  circumstance  which,  perhaps, 
helped  to  confirm  him  in  the  intention  to  educate  me 
on  a  different  plan  from  the  prescriptive  one  with  which 
he  had  complied  in  the  case  of  my  elder  brother,  already 
a  tall  youth  at  Eton.  My  brother  was  to  be  his  repre- 
sentative and  successor ;  he  must  go  to  Eton  and  Oxford, 
for  the  sake  of  making  connections,  of  course.  My  fa- 
ther was  not  a  man  to  underrate  the  bearing  of  Latin 
satirists  or  Greek  dramatists  on  the  attainment  of  an 
aristocratic  position.  But  intrinsically  he  had  slight 
esteem  for  "those  dead  but  sceptred  spirits,"  having 
qualified  himself  for  forming  an  independent  opinion 
by  reading  Potter's  ".vEschylus"  and  dipping  into  Fran- 
cis's "  Horace."  To  this  negative  view  he  added  a  posi- 
tive one,  derived  from  a  recent  connection  with  mining 
speculations — namely,  that  a  scientific  education  was  the 


326  THE  LirrED  veil. 

really  useful  training  for  a  younger  son.  Moreover,  it 
was  clear  that  a  shy,  sensitive  boy  like  me  was  not  fit  to 
encounter  the  rougli  ex]3erieuce  of  a  public  school.  Mr. 
Letherall  had  said  so  very  decidedly.  Mr.  Letherall  was 
a  large  man  in  spectacles,  who  one  day  took  my  small 
head  between  his  large  hands,  and  pressed  it  here  and 
there  in  an  exjiloratorj^,  suspicious  manner,  then  placed 
each  of  his  great  thumbs  on  my  temples,  and  pushed  me 
a  little  way  from  him,  and  stared  at  me  with  glittering 
spectacles.  The  contemplation  appeared  to  displease 
him,  for  he  frowned  sternly,  and  said  to  my  father, 
drawing  his  thumbs  across  my  eyebrows, 

"  The  deficiency  is  there,  sir — there ;  and  here,"  he 
added — touching  the  upper  sides  of  my  head — '^  here  is 
the  excess.  That  must  be  brought  out,  sir,  and  this 
must  be  laid  to  sleep." 

I  was  in  a  state  of  tremor,  partly  at  the  vague  idea 
that  I  was  the  object  of  reprobation,  partly  in  the  agita- 
tion of  my  first  hatred — hatred  of  this  big  spectacled 
man,  who  pulled  my  head  about  as  if  he  wanted  to  buy 
and  cheapen  it. 

I  am  not  aware  how  much  Mr.  Letherall  had  to  do 
with  the  system  afterwards  adopted  towards  me,  but  it 
was  presently  clear  that  private  tutors,  natural  history, 
science,  and  the  modern  languages  were  the  appliances 
by  which  the  defects  of  my  organization  were  to  be 
remedied,  I  was  very  stupid  about  machines,  so  I  was 
to  be  greatly  occupied  with  them ;  I  had  no  memory 
for  classification,  so  it  was  particularly  necessary  that  I 
should  study  systematic  zoology  and  botany ;  I  was 
hungry  for  human  deeds  and  Jiuman  emotions,  so  I  was 
to  be  plentifully  crammed  with  the  mechanical  powers, 


THE   LIFTED    VEIL.  327 

the  elementary  bodies,  and  the  phenomena  of  electricity 
and  magnetism.  A  better-constituted  boy  would  certain- 
ly have  profited  under  my  intelligent  tutors,  Avith  their 
scientific  apparatus,  and  would  doubtless  have  found  the 
phenomena  of  electricity  and  magnetism  as  fascinating 
as  I  was  every  Thursday  assured  they  were.  As  it  was, 
I  could  have  paired  off,  for  ignorance  of  whatever  was 
taught  me,  with  the  worst  Latin  scholar  that  was  ever 
turned  out  of  a  classical  academy.  I  read  Plutarch  and 
Shakespeare  and  "  Don  Quixote  "  by  the  sly,  and  sup- 
plied myself  in  that  way  with  wandering  thoughts, 
while  my  tutor  was  assuring  me  that  "  an  improved 
man,  as  distinguished  from  an  ignorant  one,  was  a  man 
who  knew  the  reason  why  water  ran  down  hill."  I  had 
no  desire  to  be  this  improved  man.  I  was  glad  of  the 
running  water;  I  could  watch  it  and  listen  to  it  gur- 
gling among  the  pebbles  and  bathing  the  bright  green 
water-plants  by  the  hour  together.  I  did  not  want  to 
know  wliy  it  ran ;  I  had  perfect  confidence  that  there 
were  good  reasons  for  what  was  so  very  beautiful. 

There  is  no  need  to  dwell  on  this  part  of  my  life.  I 
have  said  enough  to  indicate  that  my  nature  was  of  the 
sensitive,  unpractical  order,  and  that  it  grew  up  in  an 
uncongenial  medium,  which  could  never  foster  it  into 
happy,  healthy  development.  When  I  was  sixteen  I 
was  sent  to  Geneva  to  complete  my  course  of  education  ; 
and  the  change  was  a  very  happy  one  to  me,  for  the 
first  sight  of  the  Alps,  with  the  setting  sun  on  them,  as 
we  descended  the  Jura,  seemed  to  me  like  an  entrance 
into  heaven ;  and  the  three  years  of  my  life  there  were 
spent  in  a  perpetual  sense  of  exaltation,  as  if  from  a 
draught  of  delicious  wine,  at  the  presence  of  Nature  in 


328  111^    LIFTED    VEIL. 

all  licr  awful  loveliness.     You  will  think,  perhaps,  that 
1  innst  have  been  a  poet,  from  this  early  sensibility  to 
Nature.    Bat  my  lot  was  not  so  happy  as  that.    A  poet 
]ionrs  forth  his  song,  and  Mieves  in  the  listening  ear 
and  answering  soul  to  which  his  song  will  be  floated 
sooner  or  later.     But  the  poet's  sensibility  without  his 
voice — the  poet's  sensibility  that  finds  no  vent  but  in 
silent  tears  on  the  sunny  bank,  when  the  noonday  light 
sparkles  on  the  water,  or  in  an  inward  shudder  at  the 
sound  of  harsh  human  tones,  the  sight  of  a  cold  human 
eye— this  dumb  passion  brings  with  it  a  fatal  solitude 
of  soul  in  the  society  of  one's  fellow-men.     My  least 
solitary  moments  were  those  in  which  I  pushed  off  in 
my  boat  at  evening  towards  the  centre  of  the  lake.     It 
seemed  to  me  that  the  sky,  and  the  glowing  mountain- 
tops,  and  the  wide  blue  w\ater  surrounded  me  with  a 
cherishing  love  such  as  no  human  face  had  shed  on  me 
since  my  mother's  love  had  vanished  out  of  my  life.     I 
used  to  do  as  Jean  Jacques  did— lie  down  in  my  boat  and 
let  it  glide  where  it  would,  while  I  looked  up  at  the  de- 
parting glow  leaving  one  mountain-top  after  the  other, 
as  if  the  prophet's  chariot  of  fire  were  passing  over  them 
on  its  w'ay  to  the  home  of  light.    Then,  when  the  white 
summits  were  all  sad  and  corpse-like,  I  had  to  push 
homeward,  for  I  was  under  careful  surveillance,  and 
was  allowed  no  late  wanderings.     This  disposition  of 
mine  was  not  favorable  to  the  formation  of  intimate 
friendships  among  the  numerous  youths  of  my  own  age 
wdio  are  always  to  be  found  studying  at  Geneva,     Yet 
I  made  one  such  friendship ;  and,  singularly  enough,  it 
was  with  a  youth  whose  intellectual  tendencies  were 
the  very  reverse  of  my  own.     I  shall  call  him  Charles 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL.  329 

Mennier,  his  real  surname — an  English  one,  for  he  was 
of  English  extraction — having  since  become  celebrated. 
He  was  an  orphan,  who  lived  on  a  miserable  pittance 
while  he  pursued  the  medical  studies  for  which  he  had 
a  special  genius.  Strange,  that  with  my  vague  mind, 
visionary  and  unobservant,  hating  inquiry,  and  given 
up  to  contemplation,  I  should  have  been  drawn  towards 
a  youth  whose  strongest  passion  w^as  science !  But  the 
bond  was  not  an  intellectual  one  ;  it  came  from  a  source 
that  can  happily  blend  the  stupid  with  the  brilliant,  the 
dreamy  with  the  practical — it  came  from  community  of 
feeling.  Charles  was  poor  and  ugly,  derided  by  Gene- 
vese  gamms^  and  not  acceptable  in  drawing-rooms.  I 
saw  that  he  was  isolated,  as  I  was,  though  from  a  differ- 
ent cause,  and  stimulated  by  a  sympathetic  resentment, 
I  made  timid  advances  towards  him.  It  is  enough  to 
say  that  there  sprang  up  as  much  comradeship  between 
us  as  our  different  habits  would  allow ;  and  in  Charles's 
rare  holidays  we  went  up  the  Saleve  together,  or  took 
the  boat  to  Yevay,  while  I  listened  dreamily  to  the 
monologues  in  which  he  unfolded  his  bold  conceptions 
of  future  experiment  and  discovery.  I  mingled  them 
confusedly  in  my  thought  with  glimpses  of  blue  water 
and  delicate  floating  cloud,  with  the  notes  of  birds  and 
the  distant  glitter  of  the  glacier.  He  knew  quite  well 
that  my  mind  was  half  absent,  yet  he  liked  to  talk  to 
me  in  this  way ;  for  don't  we  talk  of  our  hopes  and  our 
projects  even  to  dogs  and  birds  when  they  love  us  ?  I 
have  mentioned  this  one  friendship  because  of  its  con- 
nection with  a  strange  and  terrible  scene  whicli  I  shall 
have  to  narrate  in  my  subsequent  life. 

This  happier  life  at  Geneva  was  put  an  end  to  by  a 

20  1' 


330  THE    LIFTED    VEIL. 

terrible  illness,  which  is  partlj^  a  blank  to  me,  partly  a 
time  of  dimly  remembered  suffering,  with  the  presence 
of  my  fatlier  by  my  bed  from  time  to  time.  Then  came 
the  languid  monotony  of  convalescence,  the  days  gradu- 
ally breaking  into  variety  and  distinctness  as  my  strength 
enabled  me  to  take  longer  and  longer  drives.  On  one 
of  these  more  vividly  remembered  days  my  father  said 
to  me,  as  he  sat  beside  my  sofa : 

"  When  you  are  quite  well  enough  to  travel,  Lati- 
mer, I  shall  take  you  home  with  me.  The  journey  will 
amuse  you  and  do  you  good,  for  I  shall  go  through  the 
Tyrol  and  Austria,  and  you  will  see  many  new  places. 
Our  neighbors  the  Filmores  are  come ;  Alfred  will  join 
us  at  Basle,  and  we  shall  all  go  together  to  Yienna,  and 
back  by  Prague — " 

My  father  was  called  away  before  he  had  finished 
his  sentence,  and  he  left  my  mind  resting  on  the  word 
Prague^  with  a  strange  sense  that  a  new  and  wondrous 
scene  was  breaking  upon  me :  a  city  under  the  broad 
sunshine,  that  seemed  to  me  as  if  it  were  the  summer 
sunshine  of  a  long-past  century  arrested  in  its  course, 
unrefreshed  for  ages  by  the  dews  of  night  or  the  rush- 
ing rain -cloud,  scorching  the  dusty,  weary,  time-eaten 
grandeur  of  a  people  doomed  to  live  on  in  the  stale 
repetition  of  memories,  like  deposed  and  superannuated 
kings  in  their  regal  gold -inwoven  tatters.  The  city 
looked  so  thirsty  that  the  broad  river  seemed  to  me  a 
sheet  of  metal ;  and  the  blackened  statues,  as  I  passed 
under  their  blank  gaze,  along  the  unending  bridge,  with 
their  ancient  garments  and  their  saintly  crowns,  seemed 
to  me  the  real  inhabitants  and  owners  of  this  place, 
while  the  busy,  trivial  men  and  women,  hurrying  to  and 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL.  331 

fro,  were  a  swarm  of  epheinei-al  visitants  infesting  it 
for  a  day.  It  is  such  grim,  stony  beings  as  these,  I 
tlionght,  who  are  the  fathers  of  ancient  faded  children 
in  those  tanned  time-fretted  dwellings  that  crowd  the 
steep  before  me ;  who  pay  tlieir  court  in  the  worn  and 
crumbling  pomp  of  the  palace  which  stretches  its  mo- 
notonous length  on  the  height ;  who  worship  wearily 
in  the  stifling  air  of  the  churches,  urged  by  no  fear  or 
hope,  but  compelled  by  their  doom  to  be  ever  old  and 
undying,  to  live  on  in  the  rigidity  of  habit,  as  they  live 
on  in  perpetual  mid-day,  without  the  repose  of  night  or 
the  new  birth  of  morning. 

A  stunning  clang  of  metal  suddenly  thrilled  through 
me,  and  I  became  conscious  of  the  objects  in  my  room 
again  :  one  of  the  fire-irons  had  fallen  as  Pierre  opened 
tlie  door  to  bring  me  my  draught.  My  heart  was  pal- 
pitating violently,  and  I  begged  Pierre  to  leave  my 
draught  beside  me ;  I  would  take  it  presently. 

As  soon  as  I  was  alone  again  I  began  to  ask  myself 
whether  I  had  been  sleeping.  Was  this  a  dream,  this 
wonderfully  distinct  vision — minute  in  its  distinctness 
down  to  a  patch  of  colored  light  on  the  pavement,  trans- 
mitted through  a  colored  lamp  in  the  shape  of  a  star — 
of  a  strange  city,  quite  unfamiliar  to  my  imagination  ? 
I  had  seen  no  picture  of  Prague ;  it  lay  in  my  mind  as 
a  mere  name,  with  vaguely  remembered  historical  asso- 
ciations— ill-defined  memories  of  imperial  grandeur  and 
religious  wars. 

Nothing  of  this  sort  had  ever  occurred  in  my  dream- 
ing experience  before,  for  I  had  often  been  humiliated 
because  my  dreams  were  only  saved  from  being  utterly 
disjointed  and  commonplace  by  the  frequent  terrors  of 


332  THE    LIFTED    VEIL. 

nightmare.  Bnt  I  could  not  believe  that  I  had  been 
asleep,  for  I  remembered  distinctly  the  gradual  break- 
ing in  of  the  vision  npon  me,  like  the  new  images  in  a 
dissolving  view,  or  the  growing  distinctness  of  the  land- 
scape as  the  sun  lifts  up  the  veil  of  the  morning  mist. 
And  while  I  was  conscious  of  this  incipient  vision,  I 
was  also  conscious  that  Pierre  came  to  tell  my  father 
Mr.  Filmore  was  waiting  for  him,  and  that  my  father 
hurried  out  of  the  room,  No,  it  was  not  a  dream; 
was  it — the  thought  was  full  of  tremulous  exultation — 
was  it  the  poet's  nature  in  me,  hitherto  only  a  troubled, 
yearning  sensibility,  now  manifesting  itself  suddenly  as 
spontaneous  creation  ?  Surely  it  was  in  this  way  that 
Homer  saw  the  plain  of  Troy,  that  Dante  saw  the  abodes 
of  the  departed,  that  Milton  saw  the  earthward  flight 
of  the  Tempter.  Was  it  that  my  illness  had  wrought 
some  happy  change  in  my  organization,  given  a  flrmer 
tension  to  my  nerves,  carried  oflE  some  dull  obstruction  ? 
I  had  often  read  of  such  effects — in  works  of  fiction,  at 
least.  Nay,  in  genuine  biographies  I  had  read  of  the 
subtilizing  or  exalting  influence  of  some  diseases  on  the 
mental  powers.  Did  not  Novalis  feel  his  inspiration 
intensified  under  the  progress  of  consumption? 

When  my  mind  had  dwelt  for  some  time  on  this 
blissful  idea,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  might  perhaps  test 
is  by  an  exertion  of  my  will.  The  vision  had  begun 
when  my  father  was  speaking  of  our  going  to  Prague. 
I  did  not  for  a  moment  believe  it  was  really  a  represen- 
tation of  that  city.  I  believed,  I  hoped,  it  was  a  picture 
that  my  newly  liberated  genius  had  painted  in  fiery 
haste, with  the  colors  snatched  from  lazy  memory.  Sup- 
pose I  were  to  fix  my  mind  on  some  other  place — Yen- 


THE   LIFTED    VEIL.  333 

ice,  for  example,  which  was  far  more  familiar  to  my 
imagination  than  Prague  —  perhaps  the  same  sort  of 
result  would  follow.  I  concentrated  my  thoughts  on 
Venice;  I  stimulated  my  imagination  with  poetic  mem- 
ories, and  strove  to  feel  myself  present  in  Venice,  as 
I  had  felt  myself  present  in  Prague.  Put  in  vain,  I 
was  only  coloring  the  Canaletto  engravings  that  hung 
in  my  old  bedroom  at  home;  the  picture  was  a  shift- 
ing one,  my  mind  wandering  uncertainly  in  search  of 
more  vivid  images;  I  could  see  no  accident  of  form 
or  shadow  without  conscious  labor  after  the  necessary 
conditions.  It  was  all  prosaic  effort,  not  rapt  passiv- 
ity, such  as  I  had  experienced  half  an  hour  before.  1 
was  discouraged;  but  I  remembered  that  inspiration 
was  fitful. 

For  several  days  I  was  in  a  state  of  excited  expec- 
tation, watching  for  a  recurrence  of  my  new  gift.  I 
sent  my  thoughts  ranging  over  my  world  of  knowledge, 
in  the  hope  that  they  would  find  some  object  which 
would  send  a  re-awakening  vibration  through  my  slum- 
bering genius.  But  no ;  my  world  remained  as  dim  as 
ever,  and  that  flash  of  strange  light  refused  to  come 
again,  though  I  watched  for  it  with  palpitating  eager- 
ness. 

My  father  accompanied  me  every  day  in  a  drive  and 
a  gradually  lengthening  walk  as  my  powers  of  walking 
increased ;  and  one  evening  he  had  agreed  to  come  and 
fetch  me  at  twelve  the  next  day,  that  we  might  go  to- 
gether to  select  a  musical  snuff-box  and  other  purchases, 
rigorously  demanded  of  a  rich  Englishman  visiting  Ge- 
neva. He  was  one  of  the  most  punctual  of  men  and 
bankers,  and  I  was  always  nervously  anxious  to  be  quite 


334:  THE    LIFTED    VEIL. 

ready  for  him  at  the  appointed  time.  But,  to  my  sur- 
prise, at  a  quarter  pcist  twelve  he  had  not  appeared.  I 
felt  all  the  impatience  of  a  convalescent  who  has  nothing 
particular  to  do,  and  who  has  just  taken  a  tonic  in  the 
prospect  of  immediate  exercise  that  would  carry  off  tlie 
stimulus. 

Unable  to  sit  still  and  reserve  my  strength,  I  walked 
up  and  down  the  room,  looking  out  on  the  current  of 
the  Khone  just  where  it  leaves  the  dark  blue  lake,  but 
thinking  all  the  while  of  the  possible  causes  that  could 
detain  my  father. 

Suddenly  I  Avas  conscious  that  my  father  was  in  the 
room,  bat  not  alone  :  there  were  two  persons  with  him. 
Strange!  I  had  heard  no  footstep,  I  had  not  seen  the 
door  open  ;  but  I  saw  my  father,  and  at  his  right  hand 
our  neighbor  Mrs.  Filmore,  whom  I  remembered  very 
well,  though  I  had  not  seen  her  for  five  years.  She  was 
a  commonplace,  middle-aged  woman,  in  silk  and  cash- 
mere ;  but  the  lady  on  the  left  of  my  father  was  not 
more  than  twenty  —  a  tall,  slim,  willowy  figure,  with 
luxuriant  blond  hair  arranged  in  cunning  braids  and 
folds  that  looked  almost  too  massive  for  the  slight 
figure  and  the  small -featured,  thin -lipped  face  they 
crowned.  But  the  face  had  not  a  girlish  expression : 
the  features  were  sharp,  the  pale  gray  eyes  at  once 
acute,  restless,  and  sarcastic.  They  were  fixed  on  me  in 
half-smiling  curiosity,  and  I  felt  a  painful  sensation,  as 
if  a  sharp  wind  were  cutting  me.  The  pale  green  dress 
and  the  green  leaves  that  seemed  to  form  a  border 
about  her  blond  hair  made  me  think  of  a  AVater  Nixie; 
for  my  mind  was  full  of  German  lyrics,  and  this  pale, 
fatal-eyed  woman,  with  the  green  weeds,  looked  like  a 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL.  335 

birtli  from  some  cold,  sedgy  stream,  the  daughter  of  an 
aged  river. 

"Well,  Latimer,  you  thought  me  long,"  my  father 
said.  .  .  . 

But  while  the  last  word  was  in  my  ears  the  whole 
group  vanished,  and  there  was  nothing  between  me  and 
the  Chinese  painted  folding -screen  that  stood  before 
the  door,  I  was  cold  and  trembling ;  I  could  only  tot- 
ter forward  and  throw  myself  on  the  sofa.  This  strange 
new  power  had  manifested  itself  again.  .  .  .  But  was  it 
a  power?  Might  it  not  rather  be  a  disease — a  sort  of 
intermittent  delirium,  concentrating  my  energy  of  brain 
into  moments  of  unhealthy  activity,  and  leaving  my 
saner  hours  all  the  more  barren  ?  I  felt  a  dizzy  sense 
of  unreality  in  what  my  eye  rested  on  ;  I  grasped  the 
bell  convulsively,  like  one  trying  to  free  himself  from 
nightmare,  and  rang  it  twice.  Pierre  came  with  a  look 
of  alarm  in  his  face. 

"Monsieur  ne  se  trouve  pas  bien?"  he  said,  anxiously. 

"  I'm  tired  of  waiting,  Pierre,"  I  said,  as  distinctly  and 
emphatically  as  I  could  —  like  a  man  determined  to  be 
sober  in  spite  of  wine.  "  I'm  afraid  something  has  hap- 
pened to  my  father — he  is  usually  so  punctual.  liun  to 
the  Hotel  des  Bergues,  and  see  if  he  is  there," 

Pierre  left  the  room  at  once,  with  a  soothing  "  Bien, 
monsieur,"  and  I  felt  the  better  for  this  scene  of  sim- 
ple waking  prose.  Seeking  to  calm  myself  still  further, 
I  went  into  my  bedroom,  adjoining  the  salon,  and  opened 
a  case  of  eau-de-Cologne,  took  out  a  bottle,  went  through 
the  process  of  taking  out  the  cork  very  neatly,  and  then 
rubbed  the  reviving  spirit  over  my  hands  and  forehead 
and  under  my  nostrils,  drawing  a  new  delight  from  the 


336  THE   LIFTED   VEIL. 

scent  because  I  had  procured  it  by  slow  details  of  labor, 
and  by  no  strange,  sudden  madness.  Already  I  had  be- 
gun to  taste  something  of  the  horror  that  belongs  to  the 
lot  of  a  human  being  whose  nature  is  not  adjusted  to 
simple  human  conditions. 

Still  enjoying  the  scent,  I  returned  to  the  salon  ;  but 
it  was  not  unoccupied,  as  it  had  been  before  I  left  it.  In 
front  of  the  Chinese  folding-screen  there  was  my  father, 
with  Mrs.  Filmore  on  his  right  hand,  and  on  his  left — 
the  slim,  blond-haired  girl,  with  the  keen  face  and  the 
keen  eyes  fixed  on  me  in  hulf-smiling  curiosity. 

"Well,  Latimer,  you  thought  me  long,"  my  father 
said,  .  .  . 

I  heard  no  more,  felt  no  more,  till  I  became  conscious 
that  I  was  lying  with  my  head  low  on  the  sofa,  Pierre 
and  ray  father  by  my  side.  As  soon  as  I  was  thorough- 
ly revived  my  father  left  the  room,  and  presently  re- 
turned, saying, 

"I've  been  to  tell  the  ladies  how  you  are,  Latimer. 
They  were  waiting  in  the  next  room.  "We  shall  put  off 
our  shopping  expedition  to-da_y." 

Presently  he  said,  "  That  young  lady  is  Bertha  Grant, 
Mrs.  Filmore's  orphan  niece.  Filmore  has  adopted  her, 
and  she  lives  with  them,  so  you  will  have  her  for  a  neigh- 
bor when  we  go  home — perhaps  for  a  near  relation ;  for 
there  is  a  tenderness  between  her  and  Alfred,  I  suspect, 
and  I  should  be  gratified  by  the  match,  since  Filmore 
means  to  provide  for  her  in  every  way  as  if  she  were 
his  daughter.  It  hadn't  occurred  to  me  that  you  knew 
nothing  about  her  living  with  the  Filmores." 

He  made  no  further  allusion  to  the  fact  of  my  having 
fainted  at  the  moment  of  seeing  her,  and  I  would  not 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL.  337 

for  the  world  have  told  him  the  reason.  I  shrank  from 
the  idea  of  disclosing  to  any  one  what  might  be  regard- 
ed as  a  pitiable  peculiarity,  most  of  all  from  betraying 
it  to  my  father,  who  would  have  suspected  my  sanity 
ever  after. 

I  do  not  mean  to  dwell  with  particularit}^  on  the  de- 
tails of  my  experience.  I  have  described  these  two  cases 
at  length,  because  they  had  definite,  clearly  traceable  re- 
sults in  my  after-lot. 

Shortly  after  this  last  occurrence — I  think  the  very 
next  day — I  began  to  be  aware  of  a  phase  in  my  ab- 
normal sensibility  to  which,  from  the  languid  and  slight 
nature  of  my  intercourse  with  others  since  my  illness,  I 
liad  not  been  alive  before.  This  was  the  obtrusion  on 
my  mind  of  the  mental  process  going  forward  in  first 
one  person  and  then  another,  with  whom  1  happened 
to  be  in  contact.  The  vagrant,  frivolous  ideas  and  emo- 
tions of  some  uninteresting  acquaintance — Mrs.  Filmore, 
for  example — would  force  themselves  on  ray  conscious- 
ness like  an  importunate,  ill-played  musical  instrument 
or  the  loud  activity  of  an  imprisoned  insect.  But  this 
unpleasant  sensibility  was  fitful,  and  left  me  moments 
of  rest  when  the  souls  of  my  companions  were  once  more 
shut  out  from  me,  and  I  felt  a  relief  such  as  silence 
brings  to  wearied  nerves.  I  mis^ht  have  believed  this 
importunate  insight  to  be  merely  a  diseased  activity  of 
the  imagination,  but  that  my  prevision  of  incalculable 
words  and  actions  proved  it  to  have  a  fixed  relation  to 
the  mental  process  in  other  minds.  But  this  superadded 
consciousness,  wearying  and  annoying  enough  when  it 
urged  on  me  the  trivial  experience  of  indiiferent  people, 

became  an  intense  pain  and  grief  when  it  seemed  to  be 
29*  ^'* 


338  THE    LIFTED   VEIL. 

opening  to  me  the  souls  of  those  who  were  in  a  close 
relation  to  me — when  the  rational  talk,  the  graccf  al  at- 
tentions, the  bon-mots,  and  the  kindly  deeds,  which  used 
to  make  the  web  of  their  characters,  were  seen  as  if  thrust 
asunder  by  a  microscopic  vision  that  showed  all  the  in- 
termediate frivolities,  all  the  suppressed  egoism,  all  the 
struggling  chaos  of  puerilities,  meanness,  vague  capri- 
cious memories,  and  indolent,  makeshift  thoughts,  from 
which  human  words  and  deeds  emerge  like  leaflets  cov- 
ering a  fermenting  heap. 

At  Basle  we  were  joined  by  my  brother  Alfred,  now 
a  handsome,  self-confident  man  of  six-and-twenty  —  a 
thorough  contrast  to  my  fragile,  nervous,  ineffectual  self. 
I  believe  I  w^as  held  to  have  a  sort  of  half- womanish, 
half-ghostly  beauty ;  for  the  portrait-painters,  who  are 
thick  as  weeds  at  Geneva,  had  often  asked  me  to  sit  to 
them,  and  I  had  been  the  model  of  a  dying  minstrel  in 
a  fancy  picture.  But  I  thoroughly  disliked  my  own 
physique,  and  nothing  but  the  belief  that  it  was  a  con- 
dition of  poetic  genius  would  have  reconciled  me  to  it. 
That  brief  hope  w\as  quite  fled,  and  I  saw  in  my  face 
now  nothing  but  the  stamp  of  a  morbid  organization, 
framed  for  passive  suffering  —  too  feeble  for  the  sub- 
lime resistance  of  poetic  production.  Alfred,  from 
whom  I  had  been  almost  constantly  separated,  and  who, 
in  his  present  stage  of  character  and  appearance,  came 
before  me  as  a  perfect  stranger,  was  bent  on  being 
extremel}'  friendly  and  brother-like  to  me.  He  had  the 
superficial  kindness  of  a  good-humored,  self-satisfied  nat- 
ure, that  fears  no  rivalry  and  has  encountered  no  con- 
trarieties. I  am  not  sure  that  my  disposition  was  good 
enough  for  me   to  have  been  quite  free   from  envy 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL.  339 

towards  him,  even  if  our  desires  had  not  clashed,  and 
if  I  liad  been  iu  the  healthy  human  condition  that  ad- 
mits of  generous  confidence  and  charitable  construction. 
There  must  always  have  been  an  antipathy  between  our 
natures.  As  it  Avas,  he  became  in  a  few  weeks  an  ob- 
ject of  intense  hatred  to  me ;  and  when  he  entered 
the  room,  still  more  when  he  spoke,  it  was  as  if  a  sen- 
sation of  grating  metal  had  set  my  teeth  on  edge.  My 
diseased  consciousness  was  more  intensely  and  continu- 
all}'-  occupied  with  his  thoughts  and  emotions  than  -with 
those  of  any  other  person  who  came  in  my  "way.  I 
was  perpetually  exasperated  with  the  petty  promptings 
of  his  conceit  and  his  love  of  patronage,  with  his  self- 
complacent  belief  in  Bertha  Grant's  passion  for  him, 
with  his  half -pitying  contempt  for  me  —  seen  not  in 
the  ordinary  indications  of  intonation  and  phrase  and 
slight  action,  which  an  acute  and  suspicious  mind  is  on 
the  watch  for,  but  in  all  their  naked,  skinless  compli- 
cation. 

For  we  were  rivals,  and  our  desires  clashed,  though 
he  was  not  aware  of  it.  I  have  said  nothing  yet  of 
the  effect  Bertha  Grant  produced  in  me  on  a  nearer  ac- 
quaintance. That  effect  was  chiefly  determined  by  the 
fact  that  she  made  the  only  exception,  among  all  the 
human  beings  about  me,  to  my  unhappy  gift  of  insight. 
About  Bertha  I  was  always  in  a  state  of  uncertainty :  I 
could  watch  the  expression  of  her  face,  and  speculate 
on  its  meaning ;  I  could  ask  for  her  opinion  with  the 
real  interest  of  ignorance ;  I  could  listen  for  her  words 
and  watch  for  her  smile  with  hope  and  fear :  she  had 
for  me  the  fascination  of  an  unravelled  destiny.  I  say 
it  was  this  fact  that  chiefly  determined  the  strong  effect 


340  THE    LIFTED    VEIL. 

she  produced  on  me;  for,  in  tlic  abstract,  no  womanly 
character  could  seem  to  have  less  sympathy  with  that 
of  a  shrinking,  romantic,  passionate  youth  than  Ber- 
tha's. She  was  keen,  sarcastic,  unimaginative,  premature- 
ly cynical,  remaining  critical  and  unmoved  in  the  most 
impressive  scenes,  inclined  to  dissect  all  my  favorite 
poems,  and,  most  of  all,  contemptuous  towards  the  Ger- 
man lyrics,  which  were  my  pet  literature  at  that  time. 
To  this  moment  I  am  unable  to  define  my  feeling  to- 
wards her:  it  was  not  ordinary  boyish  admiration,  for 
she  was  the  very  opposite,  even  to  the  color  of  her  hair, 
of  the  ideal  woman  who  still  remained  to  me  the  type 
of  loveliness ;  and  she  was  without  that  enthusiasm  for 
the  great  and  good  which,  even  at  the  moment  of  her 
strongest  dominion  over  me,  I  should  have  declared  to 
be  the  highest  element  of  character.  But  there  is  no 
tyranny  more  complete  than  that  which  a  self-centred 
negative  nature  exercises  over  a  nsorbidly  sensitive  nat- 
ure perpetually  craving  sympathy  and  support.  The 
most  independent  people  feel  the  effect  of  a  man's  si- 
lence in  heightening  their  value  for  his  opinion  —  feel 
an  additional  triumph  in  conquering  the  reverence  of  a 
critic  habitually  captious  and  satirical :  no  wonder,  then, 
that  an  enthusiastic,  self-distrusting  youth  should  watch 
and  wait  before  the  closed  secret  of  a  sarcastic  woman's 
face,  as  if  it  were  the  shrine  of  the  doubtfully  benignant 
deity  who  ruled  his  destiny.  For  a  young  enthusiast  is 
unable  to  imagine  the  total  negation  in  another  mind 
of  the  emotions  that  are  stirring  his  own  :  they  may  be 
feeble,  latent,  inactive,  he  thinks,  but  they  are  there ; 
they  may  be  called  forth  —  sometimes,  in  moments  of 
happy  hallucinations,  he  believes  they  may  be  there  in 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL.  341 

all  the  greater  strength  because  he  sees  no  outward  sign 
of  them.  And  this  effect,  as  I  have  intimated,  was 
heightened  to  its  utmost  intensity  in  me,  because  Ber- 
tha was  the  only  being  who  remained  for  me  in  the 
mvsterious  seclusion  of  soul  that  renders  such  youth- 
ful  delusion  possible.  Doubtless  there  was  another  sort 
of  fascination  at  work — that  subtle  physical  attraction 
whicli  deliglits  in  cheating  our  pyschological  predic- 
tions, and  in  compelling  the  men  wlio  paint  sylphs  to 
fall  in  love  with  some  honne  et  hrave  femme,  heavy- 
heeled  and  freckled. 

Bertha's  behavior  towards  me  was  such  as  to  en- 
courage all  my  illusions,  to  heighten  my  boyish  passion, 
and  make  me  more  and  more  dependent  on  her  smiles. 
Looking  back  with  my  present  wretched  knowledge,  I 
conclude  that  her  vanity  and  love  of  poM^er  were  in- 
tensely gratified  by  the  belief  that  I  had  fainted  on  first 
seeing  her  purely  from  the  strong  impression  her  per- 
son had  produced  on  me.  The  most  prosaic  woman 
likes  to  believe  herself  the  object  of  a  violent,  a  poetic 
passion  ;  and  without  a  grain  of  romance  in  her,  Bertha 
had  that  spirit  of  intrigue  which  gave  piquancy  to  the 
idea  that  the  brother  of  the  man  she  meant  to  marry 
was  dying  witli  love  and  jealousy  for  her  sake.  That 
she  meant  to  marry  my  brother  was  what  at  that  time 
I  did  not  believe ;  for  though  he  was  assiduous  in  his 
attentions  to  her,  and  I  knew  well  enough  that  both  he 
and  my  father  had  made  up  their  minds  to  this  result, 
there  was  not  yet  an  understood  engagement  —  there 
had  been  no  explicit  declaration ;  and  Bertha  habitu- 
ally, while  she  flirted  with  my  brother,  and  accepted  his 
homage  in  a  way  that  implied  to  him  a  thorough  recog- 


342  THE   LIFTED   VEIL. 

iiitioii  of  its  intention,  mndc  mc  believe,  by  the  subtlest 
looks  and  phrases,  slight  feminine  nothings  that  could 
never  be  quoted  against  her,  that  he  was  really  the  ob- 
ject of  her  secret  ridicule — that  she  thought  him,  as  I 
did,  a  coxcomb,  whom  she  would  have  pleasure  in  dis- 
appointing. Me  she  openly  petted  in  my  brothers 
presence,  as  if  I  were  too  young  and  sickly  ever  to  be 
thought  of  as  a  lover ;  and  that  was  the  view  he  took  of 
nie.  But  I  believe  she  must  inwardly  have  delighted 
in  the  tremors  into  which  she  threw  me  by  the  coaxing 
way  in  which  she  patted  my  curls,  while  she  laughed  at 
my  quotations.  Such  caresses  were  always  given  in  the 
presence  of  our  friends,  for  when  we  were  alone  togeth- 
er she  affected  a  much  greater  distance  towards  me,  and 
now  and  then  took  the  opportunity,  by  words  or  slight 
actions,  to  stimulate  my  foolish,  timid  hope  that  she 
really  preferred  me.  And  why  should  she  not  follow 
her  inclination  ?  I  was  not  in  so  advantageous  a  posi- 
tion as  my  brother,  but  I  had  fortune,  I  was  not  a  year 
younger  than  she  was,  and  she  was  an  heiress,  who 
would  soon  be  of  age  to  decide  for  herself. 

The  fluctuations  of  hope  and  fear,  confined  to  this 
one  channel,  made  each  day  in  her  presence  a  delicious 
torment.  There  was  one  deliberate  act  of  hers  wdiicli 
especially  helped  to  intoxicate  me.  When  we  were  at 
Vienna  her  twentieth  birthday  occurred,  and  as  she  was 
very  fond  of  ornaments,  we  all  took  the  opportunity  of 
the  splendid  jewellers'  shops  in  that  Teutonic  Paris  to 
purchase  her  a  birthday  present  of  jeweller3\  Mine, 
naturally,  was  the  least  expensive;  it  was  an  opal  ring 
— the  opal  was  my  favorite  stone,  because  it  seems  to 
blush  and  turn  pale  as  if  it  had  a  soul.     I  told  Bertha 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL. 


343 


so  when  I  gave  it  her,  and  said  that  it  was  an  emblem 
of  the  poetic  nature,  clianging-  with  the  changing  L'ght 
of  heaven  and  of  woman's  eyes.  In  the  evening  she 
appeared  elegantly  dressed,  and  wearing  conspicuously 
all  the  birthday  presents  except  mine.  I  looked  eager- 
ly at  her  fingers,  but  saw  no  opal.  I  had  no  opportu- 
nity of  noticing  this  to  her  during  the  evening;  but 
the  next  day,  when  I  found  her  seated  near  the  window 
alone,  after  breakfast,  I  said,  "  You  scorn  to  wear  my 
poor  opal.  I  should  have  remembered  that  you  despised 
poetic  natures,  and  should  have  given  you  coral  or  tur- 
quoise, or  some  other  opaque,  unresponsive  stone."  "  Do 
I  despise  it?"  she  answered,  taking  hold  of  a  delicate 
gold  chain  which  she  always  wore  round  her  neck  and 
drawing  out  the  end  from  her  bosom  with  my  ring 
hanging  to  it.  "It  hurts  me  a  little,  I  can  tell  you," 
she  said,  with  her  usual  dubious  smile,  "  to  wear  it  in 
that  secret  place ;  and  since  your  poetical  nature  is  so 
stupid  as  to  prefer  a  more  public  position,  I  shall  not 
endure  the  pain  any  longer." 

She  took  off  the  ring  from  the  chain  and  put  it  on 
her  finger,  smiling  still,  while  the  blood  rushed  to  my 
cheeks,  and  I  could  not  trust  myself  to  say  a  word  of 
entreaty  that  she  would  keep  the  ring  where  it  was 
before. 

I  was  completely  fooled  by  this,  and  for  two  days 
shut  myself  up  in  my  own  room  whenever  Bertha  was 
absent,  that  I  might  intoxicate  myself  afresh  with  the 
thought  of  this  scene,  and  all  it  implied. 

I  should  mention  that  during  these  two  months — 
which  seemed  a  long  life  to  me  from  the  novelty  and 
intensity  of  the  pleasures  and  pains  I  underwent — my 


Si-i  THE    LIFTED   VEIL. 

diseased  participation  in  otlicr  people's  conscionsness 
continued  to  torment  me.  Now  it  was  my  father,  and 
now  my  brother,  now  Mrs.  Fihnore  or  her  husband,  and 
now  our  Gernum  courier,  whose  stream  of  thought  rusli- 
ed  upon  me  like  a  ringing  in  the  ears  not  to  be  got  rid 
of,  though  it  allowed  my  own  impulses  and  ideas  to  con- 
tinue their  uninterrupted  course.  It  was  like  a  preter- 
naturally  heightened  sense  of  hearing,  making  audible 
to  one  a  roar  of  sound  where  others  find  perfect  still- 
ness. The  weariness  and  disgust  of  this  involuntary 
intrusion  into  other  souls  were  counteracted  only  by 
my  ignorance  of  Bertha  and  my  growing  passion  for 
her — a  passion  enormously  stimulated,  if  not  produced, 
by  that  ignorance.  She  was  my  oasis  of  mystery  in  the 
dreary  desert  of  knowledge.  I  had  never  allowed  my 
diseased  condition  to  betray  itself  or  to  drive  me  into 
any  unusual  speech  or  action,  except  once,  when,  in  a 
moment  of  peculiar  bitterness  against  my  brother,  I  had 
forestalled  some  words  which  I  knew  he  was  froino-  to 
utter — a  clever  observation,  which  he  had  prepared  be- 
forehand. He  had  occasionally  a  slightly  affected  hes- 
itation in  his  speech,  and  when  he  paused  an  instant 
after  the  second  word,  my  impatience  and  jealousy  im- 
pelled me  to  continue  the  speech  for  him,  as  if  it  were 
something  we  had  both  learned  by  rote.  He  colored  and 
looked  astonished,  as  well  as  annoyed ;  and  the  words 
had  no  sooner  escaped  my  lips  than  I  felt  a  shock  of 
alarm  lest  such  an  anticipation  of  words,  very  far  from 
being  words  of  course  easy  to  divine,  should  have  be- 
trayed me  as  an  exceptional  being,  a  sort  of  quiet  en- 
ergumen,  that  cveiy  one.  Bertha  above  all,  would  shud- 
der at  and  avoid.     But  I  magnified,  as  usual,  the  im- 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL.  345 

prcssion  any  word  or  deed  of  mine  could  produce  on 
others;  for  no  one  gave  any  sign  of  having  noticed  my 
interruption  as  more  than  a  rudeness,  to  be  forgiven  me 
on  the  score  of  my  feeble  nervous  condition. 

While  this  superadded  consciousness  of  the  actual 
was  almost  constant  with  me,  I  had  never  had  a  recur- 
rence of  that  distinct  prevision  which  I  have  described 
in  relation  to  my  first  interview  with  Bertha ;  and  I  was 
waiting  with  eager  curiosity  to  know  whether  or  not 
my  vision  of  Prague  would  prove  to  have  been  an  in- 
stance of  the  same  kind.  A  few  days  after  tl;e  incident 
of  the  opal  ring,  we  were  paying  one  of  our  frequent 
■visits  to  the  Lichtenberg  Palace.  I  could  never  look  at 
many  pictures  in  succession  ;  for  pictures,  when  they 
are  at  all  powerful,  affect  me  so  strongly  that  one  or 
Iwo  exhausts  all  my  capability  of  contemplation.  This 
norning  I  had  been  looking  at  Giorgione's  picture  of 
the  cruel-eyed  woman,  said  to  be  a  likeness  of  Lucrezia 
Borgia.  I  had  stood  long  alone  before  it,  fascinated  by 
the  terrible  reality  of  that  cunning,  relentless  face,  till 
I  felt  a  strange  poisoned  sensation,  as  if  I  had  long  been 
inhaling  a  fatal  odor,  and  was  just  beginning  to  be  con- 
scious of  its  effects.  Perhaps  even  then  I  should  not 
have  moved  away,  if  the  rest  of  the  party  had  not  re- 
turned to  this  room,  and  announced  that  they  were  go- 
ing to  the  Belvedere  Gallery  to  settle  a  bet  which  had 
arisen  between  my  brother  and  Mr.  Filmore  about  a 
portrait.  I  followed  them  dreamily,  and  was  hardly 
alive  to  what  occurred  till  they  had  all  gone  up  to  tho 
gallery,  leaving  me  below ;  for  I  refused  to  come  with- 
in sight  of  another  picture  that  day.  I  made  my  way 
to  the  Grand  Terrace,  for  it  was  agreed  that  we  should 


340  THE    LIFTED    VEIL. 

saunter  in  the  gardens  when  the  dispute  had  been  de- 
cided. I  had  been  sitting  liere  a  short  space,  vaguely 
conscious  of  trim  gardens,  Avith  a  city  and  green  hills  in 
the  distance,  when,  wishing  to  avoid  the  proximity  of 
tlic  sentinel,  I  rose  and  walked  down  the  broad  stone 
steps,  intending  to  seat  myself  farther  on  in  the  gar- 
dens. Just  as  I  reached  the  gravel-walk,  I  felt  an  arm 
slipped  within  mine,  and  a  light  hand  gently  pressing 
my  wrist.  In  the  same  instant  a  strange  intoxicating 
numbness  passed  over  me,  like  the  continuance  or  cli- 
max of  the  sensation  I  was  still  feeling  from  the  gaze 
of  Lucrezia  Borgia.  The  gardens,  the  summer  sky,  the 
consciousness  of  Bertha's  arm  being  within  mine,  all 
vanished,  and  I  seemed  to  be  suddenly  in  darkness,  out 
of  which  there  gradually  broke  a  dim  fire-light,  and  I 
felt  myself  sitting  in  my  father's  leather  chair  in  the 
library  at  home.  I  knew  the  fireplace — the  dogs  for 
the  wood  fire,  the  black  marble  chimney-piece  with  the 
white  marble  medallion  of  the  dying  Cleopatra  in  the 
centre.  Intense  and  hopeless  misery  was  pressing  on 
my  soul ;  the  light  became  stronger,  for  Bertha  was  en- 
tering with  a  candle  in  her  hand — Bertha,  my  wife — 
with  cruel  eyes,  with  green  jewels  and  green  leaves  on 
her  white  ball-dress ;  every  hateful  thought  within  her 
present  to  me.  ..."  Madman,  idiot !  why  don't  you  kill 
yourself,  then  ?"  It  was  a  moment  of  hell.  I  saw  into 
her  pitiless  soul — saw  its  barren  worldliness,  its  scorch- 
ing hate — and  felt  it  clothe  me  round  like  an  air  I  was 
obliged  to  breathe.  She  came  with  her  candle  and 
stood  over  me  with  a  bitter  smile  of  contempt ;  I  saw 
the  great  emerald  brooch  on  her  bosom,  a  studded  ser- 
pent with  diamond  eyes.     I  shuddered — I  despised  this 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL. 


34:7 


woman  with  the  barren  soul  and  mean  thoughts ;  but  I 
felt  helpless  before  her,  as  if  she  clutched  my  bleeding 
lieart,  and  would  clutch  it  till  the  last  drop  of  life-blood 
ebbed  away.  She  was  ray  wife,  and  we  hated  each  oth- 
er. '  Gradually  the  hearth,  the  dim  library,  the  candle- 
light disappeared — seemed  to  melt  away  into  a  back- 
ground of  light,  the  green  serpent  with  the  diamond 
eyes  remaining  a  dark  image  on  the  retina.  Then  I 
had  a  sense  of  my  eyelids  quivering,  and  the  living 
daylight  broke  in  upon  me;  I  saw  gardens  and  heard 
voices ;  I  was  seated  on  the  steps  of  the  Belvedere  Ter- 
race, and  ray  friends  were  round  me. 

The  tumult  of  mind  into  which  I  was  thrown  by  this 
hideous  vision  made  me  ill  for  several  days,  and  pro- 
longed our  stay  at  Vienna.  I  shuddered  with  horror  as 
the  scene  recurred  to  me ;  and  it  recurred  constantly, 
with  all  its  minutiae,  as  if  they  had  been  burned  into 
my  memory;  and  yet,  such  is  the  madness  of  the  human 
heart  under  the  influence  of  its  immediate  desires,  I  felt 
a  wild  hell-braving  joy  that  Bertha  was  to  be  mine;  for 
the  fulfilment  of  my  former  prevision  concerning  her 
first  appearance  before  me  left  me  little  hope  that  this 
last  hideous  glimpse  of  the  future  was  the  mere  diseased 
play  of  my  own  mind,  and  had  no  relation  to  external 
realities.  One  thing  alone  I  looked  towards  as  a  possible 
means  of  casting  doubt  on  my  terrible  conviction,  the 
discovery  that  my  vision  of  Prague  had  been  false — and 
Prague  was  the  next  city  on  our  route. 

Meanwhile,  I  was  no  sooner  in  Bertha's  society  again 
than  I  was  as  completely  under  her  sway  as  before. 
What  if  I  saw  into  the  heart  of  Bertha,  the  matured 
woman — Bertha,  my  wife  ?     Bertha,  the  girl,  was  a  fas- 


348  THE    LIFTED   VEIL. 

cinating  secret  to  nie  still;  I  trembled  under  her  toucli; 
I  felt  the  witchery  of  her  presence ;  I  yearned  to  be  as- 
sured of  her  love.  The  fear  of  poison  is  feeble  against 
the  sense  of  thirst.  Nay,  I  was  just  as  jealous  of  my 
brother  as  before — just  as  much  irritated  by  his  small 
patronizing  ways  ;  for  my  pride,  my  diseased  sensibility, 
were  there  as  they  had  always  been,  and  winced  as  in- 
evitably under  every  offence  as  my  eye  winced  from  an 
intruding  mote.  The  future,  even  when  brought  within 
the  compass  of  feeling  by  a  vision  that  made  me  shnd- 
der,  had  still  no  more  than  the  force  of  an  idea,  com- 
pared with  the  force  of  present  emotion — of  my  love  for 
Bertha,  of  my  dislike  and  jealousy  towards  my  brother. 

It  is  an  old  story,  that  men  sell  themselves  to  the 
tempter,  and  sign  a  bond  with  their  blood,  because  it  is 
only  to  take  effect  at  a  distant  day,  then  rush  on  to 
snatch  the  cup  their  souls  thirst  after  with  no  less  savage 
an  impulse  because  there  is  a  dark  shadow  beside  them 
for  evermore.  There  is  no  short-cut,  no  patent  tram- 
road,  to  wisdom.  After  all  the  centuries  of  invention, 
the  soul's  path  lies  through  the  thorny  wilderness  which 
must  be  still  trodden  in  solitude,  with  bleeding  feet,  with 
sobs  for  help,  as  it  was  trodden  by  them  of  old  time. 

My  mind  speculated  eagerly  on  the  means  by  which 
I  should  become  my  brother's  successful  rival,  for  I  was 
still  too  timid,  in  my  ignorance  of  Bertha's  actual  feel- 
ing, to  venture  on  any  step  that  would  urge  from  her  an 
avowal  of  it.  I  thought  I  should  gain  confidence  even 
for  this,  if  my  vision  of  Prague  proved  to  have  been 
veracious;  and  yet  the  horror  of  that  certitude  !  Behind 
the  slim  girl  Bertha,  whose  words  and  looks  I  watched 
for,  whose  touch  was  bliss,  there  stood  continually  that 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL.  319 

Bertha  with  the  fuller  form,  the  harder  eyes,  the  more 
rigid  mouth — with  the  barren,  selfish  soul  laid  bare ;  no 
longer  a  fascinating  secret,  but  a  measured  fact,  urging 
itself  perpetually  on  my  unwilling  sight.  Are  you  un- 
able to  give  me  your  sympathy,  you  who  read  this  ?  Ai'c 
you  unable  to  imagine  this  double  consciousness  at  work 
within  me,  flowing  on  like  two  parallel  streams  which 
never  mingle  their  waters  and  blend  into  a  common  hue? 
Yet  you  must  have  known  something  of  the  presenti- 
ments that  spring  from  an  insight  at  war  with  pas- 
sion ;  and  my  visions  were  only  like  presentiments  in- 
tensified to  horror.  You  have  known  the  powerlessness 
of  ideas  before  the  might  of  impulse ;  and  my  visions, 
when  once  they  had  passed  into  memory,  were  mere  ideas 
— pale  shadows  that  beckoned  in  vain,  while  my  hand  was 
grasped  by  the  living  and  the  loved. 

In  after-daj's  I  thought  with  bitter  regret  that  if  I  had 
foreseen  something  more  or  something  different — if  in- 
stead of  that  hideous  vision  which  poisoned  the  passion 
it  could  not  destroy,  or  if,  even  along  with  it,  I  could 
liave  had  a  foreshadowing  of  that  moment  when  I  looked 
on  my  brother's  face  for  the  last  time,  some  softening 
influence  would  have  been  shed  over  my  feeling  towards 
him — pride  and  hatred  would  surely  have  been  subdued 
into  pity,  and  the  record  of  those  hidden  sins  would  have 
been  shortened.  But  this  is  one  of  the  vain  thoughts 
with  which  we  men  flatter  ourselves.  We  try  to  believe 
that  the  egoism  within  us  would  have  been  easily  melted, 
and  that  it  was  only  the  narrowness  of  our  knowledge 
which  hemmed  in  our  generosity,  our  awe,  our  human 
piety,  from  submerging  our  hard  indifference  to  the  sen- 
sations and  emotions  of  our  fellow.    Our  tenderness  and 


350  TUE    LIFTED    VEIL. 

sclf-rcnunciation  seem  strong  when  our  egoism  lias  head 
its  da}',  when,  after  our  mean  striving  for  a  triumph  that 
is  to  be  another's  loss,  the  triumph  comes  suddenly,  and 
we  shudder  at  it,  because  it  is  held  out  bj  the  chill  hand 
of  death. 

Our  arrival  in  Prague  happened  at  night,  and  I  was 
glad  of  this,  for  it  seemed  like  a  deferring  of  a  terribly 
decisive  moment,  to  be  in  the  city  for  hours  without 
seeing  it.  As  we  were  not  to  remain  long  in  Prague, 
but  to  go  on  speedily  to  Dresden,  it  was  proposed  that 
we  should  drive  out  the  next  morning  and  take  a  gen- 
eral view  of  the  place,  as  Avell  as  visit  some  of  its  specially 
interesting  spots,  before  the  heat  became  oppressive ;  for 
we  were  in  August,  and  the  season  w\as  hot  and  diy. 
But  it  happened  that  the  ladies  were  rather  late  at  their 
morning  toilet,  and,  to  my  father's  politely  repressed  but 
perceptible  annoyance,  we  were  not  in  the  carriage  till 
the  morning  was  far  advanced.  I  thought,  with  a  sense 
of  relief,  as  we  entered  the  Jews'  quarter,  where  we  were 
to  visit  the  old  synagogue,  that  we  should  be  kept  in  this 
flat,  shut-up  part  of  the  city  until  we  should  all  be  too 
tired  and  too  warm  to  go  farther;  and  so  we  should  return 
without  seeing  more  than  the  streets  through  which  we 
had  already  passed.  That  would  give  me  another  day's 
suspense  —  suspense,  the  only  form  in  w^hich  a  fearful 
spirit  knows  the  solace  of  hope.  But  as  I  stood  under 
the  blackened,  groined  arches  of  that  old  synagogue, 
made  dimly  visible  by  the  seven  thin  candles  in  the 
sacred  lamp,  while  our  Jewish  cicerone  reached  down 
the  Book  of  the  Law,  and  read  to  us  in  its  ancient 
tongue,  I  felt  a  shuddering  impression  that  this  strange 
building,  with  its  shrunken  lights,  this  surviving  with- 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL.  351 

ered  remnant  of  mediseval  Judaism,  was  of  a  piece  with 
mj  vision.  Those  darkened,  dusty  Christian  saints,  with 
their  loftier  arches  and  their  larger  candles,  needed  the 
consolatory  scorn  with  which  they  might  point  to  a  more 
shriv'elled  death  in  life  than  their  own. 

As  I  expected,  wlien  we  left  the  Jews'  quarter  the 
elders  of  our  party  wished  to  return  to  the  hotel.  But 
now,  instead  of  rejoicing  in  this,  as  I  had  done  before- 
hand, I  felt  a  sudden  overpowering  impulse  to  go  on  at 
once  to  the  bridge,  and  put  an  end  to  the  suspense  I  had 
been  wishing  to  protract.  I  declared,  with  unusual  de- 
cision, that  I  would  get  out  of  the  carriage  and  walk  on 
alone ;  they  might  return  without  me.  My  father,  think- 
ing this  merely  a  sample  of  my  usual  "poetic  nonsense," 
objected  that  I  should  only  do  myself  harm  by  walking 
in  the  heat ;  but  when  I  persisted,  he  said,  angrily,  that 
I  might  follow  my  own  absurd  devices,  but  that  Schmidt 
(our  courier)  must  go  with  me.  I  assented  to  this,  and 
set  off  with  Schmidt  towards  the  bridge.  I  had  no 
sooner  passed  from  under  the  archway  of  the  grand  old 
gate  leading  on  to  the  bridge  than  a  trembling  seized 
me,  and  I  turned  cold  under  the  mid -day  sun;  yet  I 
went  on ;  I  was  in  search  of  something — a  small  detail 
which  I  remembered  with  special  intensity  as  part  of 
my  vision.  There  it  Avas  —  the  patch  of  colored  light 
on  the  pavement  transmitted  through  a  lamp  in  the 
shape  of  a  star. 


352  THE    LIFTED    VEIL. 


Chapter  II. 

Befoke  the  antiiiiiii  was  at  an  end,  and  while  the 
brown  leaves  still  stood  thick  on  the  beeches  in  our 
])ark,  my  brother  and  Bertha  were  engaged  to  each 
other,  and  it  was  understood  that  their  marriage  was 
to  take  place  early  in  the  next  spring.  In  spite  of  the 
certainty  I  had  felt  from  that  moment  on  the  bridge 
at  Prague  that  Bertha  would  one  day  be  my  wife,  my 
constitutional  timidity  and  distrust  had  continued  to 
benumb  me,  and  the  words  in  which  I  had  sometimes 
premeditated  a  confession  of  my  love  had  died  away 
unuttered.  The  same  conflict  Iiad  gone  on  within  me 
as  before — the  longing  for  an  assurance  of  love  from 
Bertha's  lips,  the  dread  lest  a  word  of  contempt  and 
denial  should  fall  upon  me  like  a  corrosive  acid.  What 
was  the  conviction  of  a  distant  necessity  to  me?  I 
trembled  under  a  present  glance,  I  hungered  after  a 
present  joy,  I  was  clogged  and  chilled  by  a  present  fear. 
And  so  the  days  passed  on :  I  witnessed  Bertha's  en- 
gagement and  heard  her  marriage  discussed  as  if  I  were 
under  a  conscious  nightmare,  knowing  it  was  a  dream 
that  would  vanish,  but  feeling  stifled  under  the  grasp 
of  hard-clutching  fingers. 

When  I  was  not  in  Bertha's  presence  —  and  I  was 
with  her  very  often,  for  she  continued  to  treat  me  with 
a  playful  patronage  that  wakened  no  jealousy  in  my 
brother — I  spent  my  time  chiefly  in  wandering,  in  stroll- 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL.  353 

ing,  01*  taking  long  rides  while  the  daylight  lasted,  and 
then  shutting  myself  up  with  ray  unread  books ;  for 
books  had  lost  the  power  of  chaining  my  attention. 
My  self-consciousness  was  heightened  to  that  pitch  of 
intensity  in  which  our  own  emotions  take  the  form  of 
a  drama  that  urges  itself  imperatively  on  our  contem- 
plation, and  we  begin  to  weep,  less  under  the  sense  of 
our  suffering  than  at  the  thought  of  it.  I  felt  a  sort  of 
pitying  anguish  over  the  pathos  of  my  own  lot — the  lot 
of  a  being  finely  organized  for  pain,  but  with  hardly 
any  fibres  that  responded  to  pleasure  —  to  whom  the 
idea  of  future  evil  robbed  the  present  of  its  joy,  and  for 
whom  the  idea  of  future  good  did  not  still  the  uneasi- 
ness of  a  present  yearning  or  a  present  dread.  I  went 
dumbly  through  that  stage  of  the  poet's  suffering  in 
which  he  feels  the  delicious  pang  of  utterance,  and 
makes  an  image  of  his  sorrows. 

I  was  left  entirely  without  remonstrance  concerning 
this  dreamy,  wayward  life.  I  knew  my  father's  thought 
about  me — "  That  lad  will  never  be  good  for  anything 
in  life:  he  may  waste  his  years  in  an  insignificant  way 
on  the  income  that  falls  to  him:  I  shall  not  trouble 
myself  about  a  career  for  him." 

One  mild  morning  in  the  beginning  of  November 
it  happened  that  I  was  standing  outside  the  portico 
patting  lazy  old  Csesar,  a  !N"ewfoundland  almost  blind 
with  age,  the  only  dog  that  ever  took  any  notice  of  me 
— for  the  very  dogs  shunned  me,  and  fawned  on  the 
happier  people  about  me — when  the  groom  brought 
up  ray  brother's  horse  which  was  to  carry  him  to  the 
hunt,  and  my  brother  himself  appeared  at  the  door, 
florid,  broad-chested,  and  self-complacent,  feeling  what 
30  Q 


354  TUE    LIFTED   VEIL. 

a  good-natured  fellow  he  -was  not  to  beliavc  inso- 
lently to  us  all  on  the  strength  of  his  great  advan- 
tages. 

"  Latimer,  old  boy,"  he  said  to  me,  in  a  tone  of  com- 
passionate cordiality, "  what  a  pity  it  is  you  don't  have 
a  run  with  the  hounds  now  and  then.  The  finest  thing 
in  tlie  world  for  low  spirits." 

"  Low  spirits !"  I  thought,  bitterly,  as  he  rode  away ; 
"  that's  the  sort  of  phrase  with  which  coarse,  narrow 
natures  like  yours  think  you  completely  define  experi- 
ence of  which  you  can  know  no  more  than  your  horse 
knows.  It  is  to  such  as  you  that  the  good  of  this  world 
falls :  ready  dulness,  healthy  selfishness,  good-tempered 
conceit — these  are  the  keys  to  happiness." 

The  quick  thought  came  that  my  selfishness  was  even 
stronger  than  his  —  it  was  only  a  suffering  selfishness 
instead  of  an  enjojdng  one.  But  then,  again,  my  exas- 
perating insight  into  Alfred's  self-complacent  soul,  his 
freedom  from  all  the  doubts  and  fears,  the  unsatisfied 
yearnings,  the  exquisite  tortures  of  sensitiveness,  that 
had  made  the  web  of  my  life,  seemed  to  absolve  me 
from  all  bonds  towards  him.  This  man  needed  no 
pity,  no  love ;  those  fine  influences  would  have  been 
as  little  felt  by  hira  as  the  delicate  white  mist  is  felt 
by  the  rock  it  caresses.  There  was  no  evil  in  store 
for  him:  if  he  was  not  to  marry  Bertha,  it  would  be 
because  he  had  found  a  lot  pleasanter  to  himself. 

Mr.  Filmore's  house  lay  not  more  than  half  a  mile 
beyond  our  own  gates,  and  whenever  I  knew  my  broth- 
er was  gone  in  another  direction,  I  went  there  for  the 
chance  of  finding  Bertha  at  home.  Later  on  in  the  day 
I  walked  thither.     By  a  rare  accident  she  was  alone, 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL. 


355 


and  we  walked  out  in  the  grounds  together,  for  she 
seldom  went  on  foot  beyond  the  trimly  swept  gravel- 
walks.  I  remember  what  a  beautiful  sylph  she  looked 
to  me  as  the  low  November  sun  shone  on  her  blond 
hair,  and  she  tripped  along  teasing  me  with  her  usual 
light  banter,  to  which  I  listened  half  fondly,  half  mood- 
ily: it  was  all  the  sign  Bertha's  mysterious  inner  self 
ever  made  to  me.  To-day  perhaps  the  moodiness  pre- 
dominated, for  1  had  not  yet  shaken  off  the  access  of 
jealous  hate  which  my  brother  had  raised  in  me  by  his 
parting  patronage.  Suddenly  I  interrupted  and  startled 
her  by  saying,  almost  fiercely, "  Bertha,  how  can  you 
love  Alfred?" 

She  looked  at  me  with  surprise  for  a  moment,  but 
soon  lier  light  smile  came  again,  and  slie  answered, 
sarcastically,  "Why  do  you  suppose  I  love  him?" 

"  How  can  you  ask  that.  Bertha  ?" 

"What!  your  wisdom  thinks  I  must  love  the  man 
I'm  going  to  marry?  The  most  unpleasant  thing  in 
the  world.  I  should  quarrel  with  him;  I  should  be 
jealous  of  him ;  our  menage  would  be  conducted  in  a 
very  ill-bred  manner.  A  little  quiet  contempt  contrib- 
utes greatly  to  the  elegance  of  life." 

"  Bertha,  that  is  not  your  real  feeling.  Why  do  you 
delight  in  trying  to  deceive  me  by  inventing  such  cyn- 
ical speeches  ?" 

"I  need  never  take  the  trouble  of  invention  in  order 
to  deceive  you,  iny  small  Tasso  "  (that  was  the  mocking 
name  she  usually  gave  me).  "  The  easiest  way  to  de- 
ceive a  poet  is  to  tell  him  the  truth." 

She  was  testing  the  validity  of  her  epigram  in  a  dar- 
ing way,  and  for  a  moment  the  shadow  of  my  vision — 


356  TUE   LIFTED    VEIL. 

the  Bertha  wliose  soul  was  no  secret  to  ine — passed  be- 
tween me  and  tlie  radiant  girl,  the  playful  sj^lph  whose 
feelings  were  a  fascinating  mystery.  I  suppose  I  must 
have  shuddered,  or  betrayed  in  some  other  way  my 
momentary  chill  of  horror. 

"  Tasso,"  she  said,  seizing  my  wrist  and  peeping  round 
into  my  face, "  are  you  really  beginning  to  discern  what 
a  heartless  girl  I  am  ?  Why,  you  are  not  half  the  poet 
I  thought  you  were;  you  are  actually  capable  of  be- 
lieving the  truth  about  me." 

The  shadow  passed  from  between  us,  and  was  no  long- 
er the  object  nearest  to  me.  The  girl  whose  light  fin- 
gers grasped  me,  whose  elfish,  charming  face  looked  into 
mine — who,  I  thought,  was  betraying  an  interest  in  my 
feelings  that  she  would  not  have  directly  avowed — this 
warm-breathing  presence  again  possessed  my  senses  and 
imagination  like  a  retm'ning  siren  melody  that  had  been 
overpowered  for  an  instant  by  the  roar  of  threatening 
waves.  It  was  a  moment  as  delicious  to  me  as  the 
waking  up  to  a  consciousness  of  youth  after  a  dream 
of  middle  age.  I  forgot  everything  but  my  passion, 
and  said,  with  swimming  eyes, 

"  Bertha,  shall  you  love  me  when  we  are  first  mar- 
ried? I  wouldn't  mind  if  you  really  loved  me  only 
for  a  little  while." 

Her  look  of  astonishment  as  she  loosed  my  hand  and 
started  away  from  me  recalled  me  to  a  sense  of  my 
strange,  my  criminal  indiscretion. 

"  Forgive  me,"  I  said,  hurriedly,  as  soon  as  I  could 
speak  again ;  "  I  didn't  know  what  I  was  saying." 

"Ah,  Tasso's  mad  fit  has  come  on,  I  see,"  she  answer- 
ed, quietly,  for  she  had  recovered  herself  sooner  than 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL.  357 

I  had.  "  Let  him  go  home  and  keep  his  head  cool.  I 
must  go  in,  for  the  sun  is  setting." 

I  left  her — full  of  indignation  against  myself.  I  had 
let  slip  words  which,  if  she  reflected  on  them,  might 
rouse  in  her  a  suspicion  of  my  abnormal  mental  condi- 
tion— a  suspicion  which  of  all  things  I  dreaded.  And 
besides  that,  I  was  ashamed  of  the  apparent  baseness 
I  had  committed  in  uttering  them  to  my  brother's  be- 
trothed wife.  I  wandered  home  slowly,  entering  our 
park  through  a  private  gate  instead  of  by  the  lodges. 
As  I  approached  the  house,  I  saw  a  man  dashing  off  at 
full  speed  from  the  stable-yard  across  the  park.  Had 
any  accident  happened  at  home  ?  No ;  perhaps  it  was 
only  one  of  my  father's  peremptory  business  errands  that 
required  this  headlong  haste.  Nevertheless  I  quicken- 
ed my  pace  without  any  distinct  motive,  and  was  soon 
at  the  house.  I  will  not  dwell  on  the  scene  I  found 
there.  My  brother  was  dead — had  been  pitched  from 
his  horse  and  killed  on  the  spot  by  a  concussion  of  the 
brain. 

I  went  up  to  the  room  where  he  lay,  and  where  my 
father  was  seated  beside  him  with  a  look  of  rigid  despair. 
I  had  shunned  my  father  more  than  any  one  since  our 
return  home,  for  the  radical  antipathy  between  our  nat- 
ures made  my  insight  into  his  inner  self  a  constant  af- 
fliction to  me.  But  now,  as  I  went  up  to  him,  and  stood 
beside  him  in  sad  silence,  I  felt  the  presence  of  a  new 
element  that  blended  us  as  we  had  never  been  blended 
before.  My  father  had  been  one  of  the  most  successful 
men  in  the  money-getting  world:  he  had  had  no  senti- 
mental sufferings,  no  illness.  The  heaviest  trouble  that 
had  befallen  him  was  the  death  of  his  first  wife.     But 


358  THE   LIFTED   VEIL. 

lie  married  my  mother  soon  after;  and  I  remember  he 
seemed  exactly  the  same,  to  my  keen  childish  observa- 
tion, the  week  after  her  death  as  before.  But  now,  at 
last,  a  sorrow  had  come — the  sorrow  of  old  age,  which 
suffers  the  more  from  the  crushing  of  its  pride  and  its 
hopes,  in  proportion  as  the  pride  and  hope  are  narrow 
and  prosaic.  His  son  was  to  have  been  married  soon — 
would  probably  have  stood  for  the  borough  at  the  next 
election.  That  son's  existence  was  the  best  motive  that 
could  be  alleged  for  making  new  purchases  of  land  every 
year  to  round  off  the  estate.  It  is  a  dreary  thing  to  live 
on  doing  the  same  things  year  after  year  without  know- 
ing why  we  do  them.  Perhaps  the  tragedy  of  disap- 
pointed youth  and  passion  is  less  piteous  than  the  trag- 
edy of  disappointed  age  and  worldliness. 

As  I  saw  into  the  desolation  of  my  father's  heart,  I 
felt  a  movement  of  deep  pity  towards  him,  which  was 
the  beginning  of  a  new  affection — an  affection  that  grew 
and  strengthened  in  spite  of  the  strange  bitterness  with 
which  he  regarded  me  in  the  first  month  or  two  after 
my  brother's  death.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the  soften- 
ing influence  of  my  compassion  for  him — the  first  deep 
compassion  I  had  ever  felt — I  should  have  been  stung 
by  the  perception  that  my  father  transferred  the  inherit- 
ance of  an  eldest  son  to  me  with  a  mortified  sense  that 
fate  had  compelled  him  to  the  unwelcome  course  of 
caring  for  me  as  an  important  being.  It  was  only  in 
spite  of  himself  that  he  began  to  think  of  me  with  anx- 
ious regard.  There  is  hardly  any  neglected  child,  for 
whom  death  has  made  vacant  a  more  favored  place, 
that  will  not  understand  what  I  mean. 

Gradually,  however,  my  new  deference  to  his  wishes, 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL.  359 

the  effect  of  that  patience  which  was  born  of  my  pity 
for  him,  won  upon  his  affection,  and  he  began  to  please 
himself  with  the  endeavor  to  make  me  fill  my  brother's 
place  as  fully  as  my  feebler  personality  would  admit.  I 
saw  that  the  prospect  which  by-and-by  presented  itself 
of  my  becoming  Bertha's  husband  was  welcome  to  him, 
and  he  even  contemplated  in  my  case  what  he  had  not 
intended  in  my  brother's — that  his  son  and  daughter-in- 
law  should  make  one  household  with  him.  My  softened 
feeling  towards  my  father  made  this  the  happiest  time  I 
had  known  since  childhood ;  these  last  months  in  which 
I  retained  the  delicious  illusion  of  loving  Bertha,  of 
longing  and  doubting  and  hoping  that  she  loved  me. 
She  behaved  with  a  certain  new  consciousness  and  dis- 
tance towards  me  after  my  brother's  death  ;  and  I,  too, 
was  under  a  double  constraint — that  of  delicacy  towards 
my  brother's  memory  and  of  anxiety  as  to  the  impres- 
sion my  abrupt  words  had  left  on  her  mind.  But  the 
additional  screen  this  mutual  reserve  erected  between 
us  only  brought  me  more  completely  under  her  power: 
•no  matter  how  empty  the  adytum,  so  that  the  veil  be 
thick  enoug-h.  So  absolute  is  our  soul's  need  of  some- 
tiling  hidden  and  uncertain  for  the  maintenance  of  that 
doubt  and  hope  and  effort  which  are  the  breath  of  its 
life,  that  if  the  whole  future  were  laid  bare  to  us  beyond 
to-day,  the  interest  of  all  mankind  would  be  bent  on  the 
hours  that  lie  between  ;  we  should  pant  after  the  uncer- 
tainties of  our  one  morning  and  our  one  afternoon  ;  we 
should  rush  fiercely  to  the  Exchange  for  our  last  possi- 
bility of  speculation,  of  success,  of  disappointment ;  we 
should  have  a  glut  of  political  prophets  foretelling  a 
crisis  or  a  no-crisis  within  the  only  twenty-four  hours 


360  THE   LIFTED   VEIL. 

left  open  to  prophecy.  Conceive  the  condition  of  the 
human  mind  if  all  propositions  whatsoever  were  self- 
evident  except  one,  which  was  to  become  self-evident  at 
the  close  of  a  summer's  day,  but  in  the  mean  time  might 
be  the  subject  of  question,  of  hypothesis,  of  debate.  Art 
and  pliilosophy,  literature  and  science  would  fasten  like 
bees  on  that  one  proposition  that  had  the  honey  of  prob- 
ability in  it,  and  be  the  more  eager  because  their  enjoy- 
ment would  end  with  sunset.  Our  impulses,  our  spir- 
itual activities  no  more  adjust  themselves  to  the  idea  of 
their  future  nullity  than  the  beating  of  our  heart  or  the 
irritability  of  our  muscles. 

Bertha,  the  slim,  fair- haired  girl,  whose  present 
thoughts  and  emotions  were  an  enigma  to  me  amid 
the  fatiguing  obviousness  of  the  other  minds  around 
me,  was  as  absorbing  to  me  as  a  single  unknown  to-day 
— as  a  single  hypothetic  proposition  to  remain  problem- 
atic till  sunset;  and  all  the  cramped,  hemmed-in  belief 
and  disbelief,  trust  and  distrust,  of  my  nature  welled 
out  in  this  one  narrow  channel. 

And  she  made  me  believe  that  she  loved  me.  With- 
out ever  quitting  her  tone  of  badinage  and  playful  su- 
periority, she  intoxicated  me  with  the  sense  that  I  was 
necessary  to  her,  that  she  was  never  at  ease  unless  I 
was  near  her,  submitting  to  her  playful  tyranny.  It 
costs  a  woman  so  little  effort  to  besot  us  in  this  way ! 
A  half-repressed  word,  a  moment's  unexpected  silence, 
even  an  easy  fit  of  petulance  on  our  account,  will  serve 
us  as  hashish  for  a  long  while.  Out  of  the  subtlest  web 
of  scarcely  perceptible  signs  she  set  me  weaving  the 
fancy  that  she  had  always  unconsciously  loved  me  bet- 
ter than  Alfred,  but  that,  with  the  ignorant,  fluttered 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL.  361 

sensibility  of  a  young  girl,  she  had  been  imposed  on  by 
the  charm  that  lay  for  her  in  the  distinction  of  being 
admired  and  chosen  by  a  man  who  made  so  brilliant  a 
figure  in  the  world  as  my  brother.  She  satirized  her- 
self in  a  very  graceful  way  for  her  vanity  and  ambi- 
tion. What  was  it  to  me  that  I  had  the  light  of  my 
wretched  prevision  on  the  fact  that  now  it  was  I  who 
possessed  at  least  all  but  the  personal  part  of  my  broth- 
er's advantages?  Our  sweet  illusions  are  half  of  thera 
conscious  illusions,  like  effects  of  color  that  we  know  to 
be  made  up  of  tinsel,  broken  glass,  and  rags. 

We  were  married  eighteen  months  after  Alfred's 
death,  one  cold,  clear  morning  in  April,  when  there 
came  hail  and  sunshine  both  together;  and  Bertha,  in 
her  white  silk  and  pale  green  leaves,  and  the  pale  sun- 
shine of  her  hair  and  eyes,  looked  like  the  spirit  of  the 
morning.  My  father  was  happier  than  he  had  thought 
of  being  again  :  ray  marriage,  he  felt  sure,  would  com- 
plete the  desirable  modification  of  my  character,  and 
make  me  practical  and  worldly  enough  to  take  my  place 
in  society  among  sane  men.  For  he  delighted  in  Ber- 
tha's tact  and  acuteness,  and  felt  sure  she  would  be  mis- 
tress of  me,  and  make  me  what  she  chose :  I  was  only 
twenty-one,  and  madly  in  love  with  her.  Poor  father ! 
He  kept  that  hope  a  little  while  after  our  first  year  of 
marriage,  and  it  was  not  quite  extinct  when  paralysis 
came  and  saved  him  from  utter  disappointment. 

I  shall  hurry  through  the  rest  of  my  story,  not  dwell- 
ing so  much  as  I  have  hitherto  done  on  my  inward  ex- 
perience. When  people  are  well  known  to  each  other, 
they  talk  rather  of  what  befalls  them  externally,  leav- 
ing their  feelings  and  sentiments  to  be  inferred. 
30*  Q* 


362  THE   LIFTED   VEIL. 

Wo  lived  in  a  round  of  visits  for  some  time  after  onr 
return  Lome,  giving  splendid  dinner-parties,  and  mak- 
ing a  sensation  in  our  neighborhood  by  the  new  lustre 
of  our  equipage,  for  my  father  had  reserved  this  dis- 
play of  his  increased  wealth  for  the  period  of  his  son's 
marriage;  and  we  gave  our  acquaintances  liberal  op- 
portunity for  remarking  that  it  was  a  pity  I  made  so 
poor  a  figure  as  an  heir  and  a  bridegroom.  The  nerv- 
ous fatigue  of  this  existence,  the  insincerities  and  plat- 
itudes which  I  had  to  live  through  twice  over— through 
my  inner  and  outward  sense — would  have  been  mad- 
dening to  me,  if  I  had  not  had  that  sort  of  intoxicated 
callousness  which  came  from  the  delights  of  a  first  pas- 
sion. A  bride  and  bridegroom,  surrounded  by  all  the 
appliances  of  wealth,  hurried  through  the  day  by  the 
whirl  of  society,  filling  their  solitary  moments  with  has- 
tily snatched  caresses,  are  prepared  for  their  future  life 
together,  as  the  novice  is  prepared  for  the  cloister  by 
experiencing  its  utmost  contrast. 

Through  all  these  crowded,  excited  months  Bertha's 
inward  self  remained  shrouded  from  me,  and  I  still  read 
her  thoughts  only  through  the  language  of  her  lips  and 
demeanor.  I  had  still  the  delicious  human  interest  of 
wondering  whether  what  I  did  and  said  pleased  her,  of 
longing  to  hear  a  word  of  affection,  of  giving  a  deli- 
cious exaggeration  of  meaning  to  her  smile.  But  I 
was  conscious  of  a  growing  difference  in  her  manner 
towards  me:  sometimes  strong  enough  to  be  called 
haughty  coldness,  cutting  and  chilling  me  as  the  hail 
had  done  that  came  across  the  sunshine  on  our  mar- 
riage morning;  sometimes  only  perceptible  in  the  dex- 
trous avoidance  of  a  tete-d-tele  walk  or  dinner,  to  which 


TUE    LIFTED    VEIL.  363 

I  had  been  looking  forward.  I  had  been  deeply  pained 
by  this,  had  even  felt  a  sort  of  erusliing  of  the  heart, 
from  the  sense  that  my  brief  day  of  happiness  was  near 
its  setting;  but  still  I  remained  dependent  on  Bertha, 
eager  for  the  last  rays  of  a  bliss  that  would  soon  be 
gone  forever,  hoping  and  watching  for  some  after-glow 
more  beautiful  from  the  impending  night. 

I  remember — how  should  I  not  remember? — the  time 
wlien  that  dependence  and  hope  utterly  left  me,  when 
the  sadness  I  had  felt  in  Bertha's  growing  estrangement 
became  a  joy  that  I  looked  back  upon  with  longing,  as 
a  man  might  look  back  on  the  last  pains  in  a  paralyzed 
limb.  It  was  just  after  the  close  of  my  father's  last  ill- 
ness, which  necessarily  withdrew  us  from  society,  and 
threw  us  more  upon  each  other.  It  was  the  evening  of 
my  father's  death.  On  that  evening  the  veil  that  had 
shrouded  Bertha's  soul  from  me,  and  made  me  find  in 
her  alone  among  my  fellow-beings  the  blessed  possibility 
of  mystery  and  doubt  and  expectation,  was  first  witli- 
drawn.  Perhaps  it  was  the  first  day  since  the  beginning 
of  my  passion  for  her  in  which  that  passion  was  com- 
pletely neutralized  by  the  presence  of  an  absorbing  feel- 
ing of  another  kind,  I  had  been  watching  by  my  fa- 
ther's death-bed :  I  had  been  witnessing  the  last  fitful, 
yearning  glances  his  soul  had  cast  back  on  the  spent 
inheritance  of  life,  the  last  faint  consciousness  of  love 
he  had  gathered  from  the  pressure  of  my  hand.  What 
are  all  our  personal  loves  when  we  have  been  sharing  in 
that  supreme  agony?  In  the  first  moments  when  we 
come  away  from  the  presence  of  death  every  other  rela- 
tion to  the  living  is  merged,  to  our  feeling,  in  the  great 
relation  of  a  common  nature  and  a  common  destiny. 


364:  THE   LIFTED    VEIL. 

It  was  in  that  state  of  mind  that  I  joined  Bertlia  in 
lier  private  sitting'-room.  She  was  seated  in  a  leaning 
postnre  on  a  settee,  with  lier  back  towards  the  door,  the 
great  rich  coils  of  her  blond  hair  surmounting  her  small 
neck,  visible  above  the  back  of  the  settee.  I  remember 
as  I  closed  the  door  behind  me  a  cold  treniulousness  seiz- 
ing me,  and  a  vague  sense  of  being  hated  and  lonely — 
vague  and  strong,  like  a  presentiment.  I  know  how  I 
looked  at  that  moment,  for  I  saw  myself  in  Bertha's 
thought  as  she  lifted  her  cutting  gray  eyes  and  looked 
at  me — a  miserable  ghost-seer,  surrounded  by  phantoms 
in  the  noonday,  trembling  under  a  breeze  when  the 
leaves  were  still,  without  appetite  for  the  common  ob- 
jects of  human  desire,  but  pining  after  the  moonbeams. 
We  were  front  to  front  with  each  other,  and  judged  each 
otlier.  The  terrible  moment  of  complete  illumination 
had  come  to  me,  and  I  saw  that  the  darkness  had  hidden 
no  landscape  from  me,  but  only  a  blank  prosaic  wall. 
From  that  evening  forth,  through  the  sickening  years 
that  followed,  I  saw  all  round  the  narrow  room  of  this 
woman's  soul ;  saw  petty  artifice  and  mere  negation 
where  I  had  delighted  to  believe  in  coy  sensibilities,  and 
in  wit  at  war  with  latent  feeling ;  saw  the  light  floating 
vanities  of  the  girl  defining  themselves  into  the  system- 
atic coquetry,  the  scheming  selfishness,  of  the  woman ; 
saw  repulsion  and  antipathy  hardening  into  cruel  hatred, 
giving  pain  only  for  the  sake  of  wreaking  itself. 

For  Bertha,  too,  after  her  kind,  felt  the  bitterness  of 
disillusion.  She  had  believed  that  my  wild  poet's  pas- 
sion for  her  would  make  me  her  slave,  and  that,  being 
her  slave,  I  should  execute  her  will  in  all  things.  With 
the  essential  shallowness  of  a  negative,  unimaginative 


THE   LIFTED    VEIL.  365 


O 


nature,  she  was  unable  to  conceive  the  fact  that  sensi- 
bilities were  anything  else  than  weaknesses.  She  had 
thought  ray  weaknesses  would  put  me  in  her  power,  and 
she  found  them  unmanageable  forces.  Our  positions 
were  reversed.  Before  marriage  she  had  completely 
mastered  my  imagination,  for  she  was  a  secret  to  me; 
and  I  created  the  unknown  thought  before  which  I  trem- 
bled, as  if  it  were  hers.  But  now  that  her  soul  was  laid 
open  to  me,  now  that  I  was  compelled  to  share  the  pri- 
vacy of  her  motives,  to  follow  all  the  petty  devices  tliat 
preceded  her  words  and  acts,  she  found  herself  powerless 
with  me,  except  to  produce  in  me  the  chill  shudder  of 
repulsion — powerless,  because  I  could  be  acted  on  by  no 
lever  within  her  reach.  I  was  dead  to  worldly  ambitions, 
to  social  vanities,  to  all  the  incentives  within  the  com- 
pass of  her  narrow  imagination,  and  I  lived  under  in- 
fluences utterly  invisible  to  her.- 

She  was  really  pitiable  to  have  such  a  husband,  and  so 
all  the  world  thought.  A  graceful,  brilliant  woman  like 
Bertha,  who  smiled  on  morning  callers,  made  a  figure  in 
ball-rooms,  and  was  capable  of  that  light  repartee  which, 
from  such  a  woman,  is  accepted  as  wit,  was  secure  of 
carrying  off  all  sympathy  from  a  husband  who  was  sick- 
1}'^,  abstracted,  and,  as  some  suspected,  crack-brained. 
Even  the  servants  in  our  house  gave  her  the  balance  of 
their  regard  and  pity.  For  there  were  no  audible  quar- 
rels between  us ;  our  alienation,  our  repulsion  from  each 
other  lay  within  the  silence  of  our  own  hearts;  and  if 
the  mistress  went  out  a  great  deal,  and  seemed  to  dis- 
like the  master's  society,  was  it  not  natural,  poor  thing  ? 
The  master  was  odd.  I  was  kind  and  just  to  ray  depend- 
ents, but  I  excited  in  them  a  shrinking,  half-contemptuous 


3G6 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL. 


pity ;  for  this  class  of  men  and  women  are  but  slightly 
determined  in  their  estimate -of  others  by  general  con^ 
sidcrations  of  character.  They  judge  of  persons  as  they 
judge  of  coins,  and  value  tliose  who  pass  current  at  a 
high  rate. 

After  a  time  I  interfered  so  little  with  Bertha's  habits 
that  it  might  seem  wonderful  how  her  hatred  towards 
me  could  grow  so  intense  and  active  as  it  did.     But  she 
had  begun  to  suspect,  by  some  involuntary  betrayals  of 
mine,  that  there  was  an  abnormal  power  of  penetration 
in  me — that  fitfully,  at  least,  I  was  strangely  cognizant 
of  her  thoughts  and  intentions ;  and  she  began  to  be 
haunted  by  a  terror  of  me,  which  alternated  every  now 
and  then  with  defiance.    She  meditated  continually  how 
the  incubus  could  be  shaken  bff  her  life,  how  she  could 
be  freed  from  this  hateful  bond  to  a  being  whom  she  at 
once  despised  as  an  imbecile  and  dreaded  as  an  inquisi- 
tor.    For  a  long  while  she  lived  in  the  hope  that  my 
evident  wretchedness  would  drive  me  to  the  commission 
of  suicide ;  but  suicide  was  not  in  my  nature.     I  was 
too  completely  swayed  by  the  sense  that  I  was  in  the 
grasp  of  ur^known  forces  to  believe  in  my  power  of  self- 
release.    Towards  my  own  destiny  I  had  become  entire- 
ly passive,  for  my  one  ardent  desire  had  spent  itself,  and 
impulse  no  longer  predominated  over  knowledge.     For 
this  reason  I  never  thought  of  taking  any  steps  towards 
a  complete  separation,  which  would  have  made  our  al- 
ienation evident  to  the  world.     Why  should  I  rush  for 
help  to  a  new  course,  when  I  was  only  suffering  from 
the  consequences  of  a  deed  which  had  been  the  act  of 
my  intensest  will  ?     That  would  have  been  the  logic  of 
one  who  had  desires  to  gratify,  and  I  had  no  desires. 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL.  367 

But  Bertha  and  I  lived  more  and  more  aloof  from  each 
other.     The  rich  find  it  easy  to  live  married  and  apart. 

That  course  of  our  life  which  I  have  indicated  in  a 
few  sentences  filled  the  space  of  years.  So  much  mis- 
ery, so  slow  and  hideous  a  growth  of  hatred  and  sin  may 
be  compressed  into  a  sentence !  And  men  judge  of  each 
other's  lives  through  this  summary  medium.  They  epit- 
omize the  experience  of  their  fellow-mortal,  and  pro- 
nounce judgment  on  him  in  neat  syntax,  and  feel  them- 
selves wise  and  virtuous — conquerors  over  the  tempta- 
tions they  define  in  well  -  selected  predicates.  Seven 
years  of  wretchedness  glide  glibly  over  the  lips  of  the 
man  who  has  never  counted  them  out  in  moments  of 
chill  disappointment,  of  herfd  and  heart  throbbings,  of 
dread  and  vain  wa-estling,  of  remorse  and  despair.  We 
learn  words  by  rote,  but  not  tlieir  meaning;  that  must 
be  paid  for  with  our  life-blood,  and  printed  in  the  subtle 
fibres  of  our  nerves. 

But  I  will  hasten  to  finish  my  story.  Brevity  is 
justified  at  once  to  those  who  readily  understand  and 
to  those  who  will  never  understand. 

Some  years  after  my  father's  death  I  was  sitting  by 
the  dim  firelight  in  my  library  one  January  evening — 
sitting  in  the  leather  chair  that  used  to  be  my  fathei''s 
— when  Bertha  appeared  at  the  door,  with  a  candle  in 
her  hand,  and  advanced  towards  me.  I  knew  the  ball- 
dress  she  had  on — the  white  ball-dress,  with  the  green 
jewels,  shone  upon  by  the  light  of  the  wax-candle,  wliich 
lit  up  the  medallion  of  the  dying  Cleopatra  on  the  man- 
tel-piece. Why  did  she  come  to  me  before  going  out? 
I  had  not  seen  her  in  the  library,  which  was  my  habitual 
place,  for  months.     Why  did  she  stand  before  me  with 


3G8  TUE    LIFTED   VEIL. 

the  candle  in  lier  hand,  with  her  cruel,  contemptnons 
eyes  fixed  on  me,  and  the  glittering  serpent,  like  a  fa- 
miliar demon,  on  her  breast  ?  For  a  moment  I  thought 
this  fulfilment  of  my  vision  at  Yienna  marked  some 
dreadful  crisis  in  my  fate,  but  I  saw  nothing  in  Bertha's 
mind,  as  she  stood  before  me,  except  scorn  for  the  look 
of  overwhelming  misery  with  which  I  sat  before  her. 
..."  Fool,  idiot,  why  don't  you  kill  yourself,  then  ?" — 
that  was  her  thought.  But  at  length  her  thoughts  re- 
verted to  her  errand,  and  she  spoke  aloud.  The  appar- 
ently indifferent  nature  of  the  errand  seemed  to  make 
a  ridiculous  anticlimax  to  my  prevision  and  ray  agita- 
tion. 

"  I  have  had  to  hire  a  new  maid.  Fletcher  is  going 
to  be  married,  and  she  wants  me  to  ask  you  to  let  her 
husband  have  the  public-house  and  farm  at  Molton.  I 
wish  him  to  have  it.  You  must  give  the  promise  now, 
because  Fletcher  is  going  to-morrow  morning  —  and 
quickly,  because  I'm  in  a  hurry." 

"Yery  well;  you  may  promise  her,"  I  said,  indiffer- 
ently, and  Bertha  swept  out  of  the  library  again. 

I  always  shrank  from  the  sight  of  a  new  person,  and 
all  the  more  when  it  was  a  person  whose  mental  life 
was  likely  to  weary  my  reluctant  insight  with  worldly, 
ignorant  trivialities.  But  I  shrank  especially  from  the 
sight  of  this  new  maid,  because  her  advent  had  been 
announced  to  me  at  a  moment  to  which  I  could  not 
cease  to  attach  some  fatality.  I  had  a  vague  dread  that 
I  should  find  her  mixed  up  with  the  dreary  drama  of 
my  life — that  some  new  sickening  vision  would  reveal 
her  to  me  as  an  evil  genius.  When  at  last  I  did  un- 
avoidably meet  her,  the  vague  dread  was  changed  into 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL.  369 

definite  disgust.  She  was  a  tall,  wiry,  dark-eyed  wom- 
an this  Mrs.  Archer,  with  a  face  handsome  enough  to 
give  her  coarse  hard  nature  the  odious  finish  of  bold, 
self-confident  coquetry.  That  was  enough  to  make  me 
avoid  her,  quite  apart  from  the  contemptuous  feeling 
with  which  she  contemplated  me.  I  seldom  saw  her; 
but  I  perceived  that  she  rapidly  became  a  favorite  with 
her  mistress,  and  after  the  lapse  of  eight  or  nine  months, 
I  began  to  be  aware  that  there  had  arisen  in  Bertha's 
mind  towards  this  woman  a  mingled  feeling  of  fear  and 
dependence,  and  that  this  feeling  was  associated  with 
ill-defined  images  of  candle-light  scenes  in  her  dressing- 
room,  and  the  locking  up  of  something  in  Bertha's  cab- 
inet. My  interviews  with  my  wife  had  become  so  brief 
and  so  rarely  solitary  that  I  had  no  opportunity  of  per- 
ceiving these  images  in  her  mind  with  more  definite- 
ness.  The  recollections  of  the  past  become  contracted 
in  the  rapidity  of  thought  till  they  sometimes  bear 
hardly  a  more  distinct  resemblance  to  the  external 
reality  than  the  forms  of  an  Oriental  alphabet  to  the 
objects  that  suggested  them. 

Besides,  for  the  last  year  or  more,  a  modification  had 
been  going  forward  in  my  mental  condition,  and  was 
growing  more  and  more  marked.  My  insight  into  the 
minds  of  those  around  me  was  becoming  dimmer  and 
more  fitful,  and  the  ideas  that  crowded  my  double  con- 
sciousness became  less  and  less  dependent  on  any  per- 
sonal contact.  All  that  was  personal  in  me  seemed  to 
be  suffering  a  gradual  death,  so  that  I  was  losing  the 
organ  through  which  the  personal  agitations  and  proj- 
ects of  others  could  affect  me.  But  along  with  this  re- 
lief from  wearisome  insight,  there  was  a  new  develop- 


370  THE    LIFTED   VEIL. 

ment  of  what  I  concluded — as  I  have  since  found  rif^ht- 
\y — to  be  a  prevision  of  external  scenes.  It  was  as  if 
the  relation  between  me  and  my  fellow-men  was  more 
and  more  deadened,  and  my  relation  to  what  we  call 
the  inanimate  was  quickened  into  new  life.  The  more 
I  lived  apart  from  society,  and  in  proportion  as  my 
wretchedness  subsided  from  the  violent  throb  of  ago- 
nized passion  into  the  dulness  of  habitual  pain,  the 
more  frequent  and.  vivid  became  such  visions  as  that  I 
had  had  of  Prague — of  strange  cities,  of  sandy  plains, 
of  gigantic  ruins,  of  midnight  skies  with  strange  bright 
constellations,  of  mountain  passes,  of  grassy  nooks  flecked 
with  the  afternoon  sunshine  through  the  boughs.  I  was 
in  the  midst  of  all  these  scenes,  and  in  all  of  them  one 
presence  seemed  to  weigh  on  me  in  all  these  mighty 
shapes — the  presence  of  something  unknown  and  piti- 
less. For  continual  sliffering  had  annihilated  religious 
faith  within  me ;  to  the  utterly  miserable — the  unlov- 
ing and  the  unloved — there  is  no  religion  possible,  no 
worship  but  a  worship  of  devils,  and  beyond  all  these, 
and  continually  recurring,  was  the  vision  of  my  death 
— the  pangs,  the  suffocation,  the  last  struggle,  when  life 
would  be  grasped  at  in  vain. 

Things  were  in  this  state  near  the  end  of  the  seventh 
year.  I  had  become  entirely  free  from  insight,  from 
my  abnormal  cognizance  of  any  other  consciousness 
than  my  own,  and  instead  of  intruding  involuntarily 
into  the  world  of  other  minds,  was  living  continually 
in  my  own  solitary  future.  Bertha  was  aware  that  I 
was  greatly  changed.  To  my  surprise  she  had  of  late 
seemed  to  seek  opportunities  of  remaining  in  my  socie- 
ty, and  had  cultivated  that  kind  of  distant  yet  familiar 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL.  371 

talk  whicli  is  cnstomary  between  a  husband  and  wife 
who  live  in  polite  and  irrevocable  alienation.  I  bore 
this  with  languid  submission,  and  without  feeling  enough 
interest  in  her  motives  to  be  roused  into  keen  observa- 
tion ;  yet  I  could  not  help  perceiving  something  trium- 
phant and  excited  in  her  carriage  and  the  expression 
of  her  face — something  too  subtle  to  express  itself  in 
words  or  tones,  but  giving  one  the  idea  that  she  lived 
in  a  state  of  expectation  or  hopeful  suspense.  My  chief 
feeling  was  satisfaction  that  her  inner  self  was  once 
more  shut  out  from  me;  and  I  almost  revelled  for  the 
moment  in  the  absent  melancholy  that  made  me  answer 
her  at  cross-purposes,  and  betray  utter  ignorance  of  what 
she  had  been  saying.  I  remember  well  the  look  and 
the  smile  with  which  she  one  day  said,  after  a  mistake 
of  this  kind  on  my  part,  "  I  used  to  think  you  were  a 
clairvoyant,  and  that  was  the  reason  why  you  were  so 
bitter  against  other  clairvoyants,  wanting  to  keep  your 
monopoly ;  but  I  see  now  you  have  become  rather 
duller  than  the  rest  of  the  world." 

I  said  nothing  in  reply.  It  occurred  to  me  that  her 
recent  obtrusion  of  herself  upon  me  might  have  been 
prompted  by  the  wish  to  test  my  power  of  detecting 
some  of  her  secrets ;  but  I  let  the  thought  drop  again 
at  once ;  her  motives  and  her  deeds  had  no  interest  for 
me,  and  whatever  pleasures  she  might  be  seeking,  I  had 
no  wish  to  balk  her.  There  was  still  pity  in  my  soul 
for  every  living  thing,  and  Bertha  was  living — was  sur- 
rounded with  possibilities  of  misery. 

Just  at  this  time  there  occurred  an  event  which  roused 
me  somewhat  from  my  inertia,  and  gave  me  an  interest 
in  the  passing  moment  that  I  had  thought  impossible 


872  THE    LIFTED   VEIL. 

for  me.  It  was  a  visit  from  Charles  Mcunier,  who  had 
written  me  word  that  he  was  coming  to  England  foi" 
relaxation  from  too  strenuous  labor,  and  would,  like  to 
see  me.  Meunier  had  now  a  European  reputation ;  but 
his  letter  to  me  expressed  that  keen  remembrance  of  an 
early  regard,  an  early  debt  of  sympathy,  which  is  in- 
separable from  nobility  of  character;  and  I,  too,  felt  as 
if  his  presence  would  be  to  me  like  a  transient  resurrec- 
tion into  a  happier  pre-existence. 

He  came,  and  as  far  as  possible  I  renewed  our  old 
pleasure  of  making  tete-a-tete  excursions,  though  instead 
of  mountains  and  glaciers  and  the  wide  blue  lake,  we 
had  to  content  ourselves  with  mere  slopes  and  ponds 
and  artificial  plantations.  The  years  had  changed  us 
both,  but  with  what  different  result !  Meunier  was  now 
a  brilliant  figure  in  society,  to  whom  elegant  women 
pretended  to  listen,  and  whose  acquaintance  was  boasted 
of  by  noblemen  ambitious  of  brains.  He  repressed  with 
the  utmost  delicacy  all  betrayal  of  the  shock  which  I  am 
sure  he  must  have  received  from  our  meeting,  or  of  a 
desire  to  penetrate  into  my  condition  and  circumstances, 
and  sought  by  the  utmost  exertion  of  his  charming  so- 
cial powers  to  make  our  reunion  agreeable.  Bertha  was 
much  struck  by  the  unexpected  fascinations  of  a  visitor 
whom  she  had  expected  to  find  presentable  only  on  the 
score  of  his  celebrity,  and  put  forth  all  her  coquetries 
and  accomplishments.  Apparently  slie  succeeded  in  at- 
tracting his  admiration,  for  his  manner  towards  her  was 
attentive  and  flattering.  The  effect  of  his  presence  on 
me  was  so  benignant,  especially  in  those  renewals  of  our 
old  tete-Ortete  wanderings  when  he  poured  forth  to  me 
wonderful  narratives  of  his  professional  experience,  that 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL,  373 

more  than  once,  when  his  talk  turned  on  the  psychologi- 
cal relations  of  disease,  the  thought  crossed  my  mind 
that,  if  his  stay  with  me  were  long  enough,  I  might  pos- 
sibly bring  myself  to  tell  this  man  the  secrets  of  my  lot. 
Might  there  not  lie  some  remedy  for  me^  too,  in  his  sci- 
ence ?  Might  there  not  at  least  lie  some  comprehension 
and  sympathy  ready  for  me  in  liis  large  and  susceptible 
mind  ?  But  the  thought  only  flickered  feebly  now  and 
then,  and  died  out  before  it  could  become  a  wish.  The 
horror  I  had  of  again  breaking  in  on  the  privacy  of  an- 
other soul  made  me,  by  an  irrational  instinct,  draw  tlic 
shroud  of  concealment  more  closely  around  my  own,  as 
we  automatically  perform  the  gesture  we  feel  to  be  want- 
ing in  another. 

When  Meunier's  visit  was  approaching  its  conclusion, 
there  happened  an  event  which  caused  some  excitement 
in  our  household,  owing  to  the  surprisingly  strong  effect 
it  appeared  to  produce  on  Bertha — on  Bertha,  the  self- 
possessed,  who  usually  seemed  inaccessible  to  feminine 
agitations,  and  did  even  her  hate  in  a  self -restrained, 
hygienic  manner.  This  event  was  the  sudden  severe 
illness  of  her  maid,  Mrs.  Archer.  I  have  reserved  to 
this  moment  the  mention  of  a  circumstance  which  had 
forced  itself  on  my  notice  shortly  before  Meunier's  ar- 
rival— namely,  that  there  had  been  some  quarrel  between 
Bertha  and  this  maid,  apparently  during  a  visit  to  a  dis- 
tant family,  in  which  she  had  accompanied  her  mistress. 
I  had  overheard  Archer  speaking  in  a  tone  of  bitter  in- 
solence, which  I  should  have  thought  an  adequate  reason 
for  immediate  dismissal.  No  dismissal  followed ;  on  the 
contrary,  Bertha  seemed  to  be  silently  putting  up  with 
personal  inconveniences   from   the   exhibition  of  this 


374  '-I'UK    LIFTED    VEIL. 

woman's  temper.  I  was  the  more  astonished  to  observe 
that  lier  ilhiess  seemed  a  cause  of  strong  soHcitnde  to 
Bertha ;  tliat  she  was  at  the  bedside  night  and  day,  and 
would  allow  no  one  else  to  ofiiciate  as  liead-nurse.  It 
happened  that  our  family  doctor  was  out  on  a  holiday — 
an  accident  which  made  Meunier's  presence  in  the  house 
doubly  welcome,  and  he  apparently  entered  into  the  case 
with  an  interest  which  seemed  so  much  stronger  than 
the  ordinary  professional  feeling  that  one  day,  when  he 
had  fallen  into  a  long  fit  of  silence  after  visiting  her,  I 
said  to  him, 

"Is  this  a  very  peculiar  case  of  disease,  Meunier?" 
"Ko,"  he  answered,  "it  is  an  attack  of  peritonitis, 
which  will  be  fatal,  but  which  does  not  differ  physically 
from  many  other  cases  that  have  come  under  my  obser- 
vation. But  I'll  tell  3^ou  what  I  have  on  my  mind.  I 
want  to  make  an  experiment  on  this  woman,  if  you  will 
give  me  permission.  It  can  do  her  no  harm — will  give 
her  no  pain — for  I  shall  not  make  it  until  life  is  extinct 
to  all  purposes  of  sensation.  I  want  to  try  the  effect 
of  transfusing  blood  into  her  arteries  after  the  heart  has 
ceased  to  beat  for  some  minutes.  I  have  tried  the  ex- 
periment again  and  again  with  animals  that  have  died 
of  this  disease,  witli  astounding  results,  and  I  want  to 
try  it  on  a  human  subject.  I  have  the  small  tubes  nec- 
essary in  a  case  I  have  with  me,  and  the  rest  of  the  ap- 
paratus could  be  prepared  readily.  I  should  use  my  own 
blood — take  it  from  my  own  arm.  This  woman  won't 
live  through  the  night,  I'm  convinced,  and  I  want  you 
to  promise  me  your  assistance  in  making  the  experi- 
ment. I  can't  do  without  another  hand,  but  it  would 
perhaps  not  be  well  to  call  in  a  medical  assistant  from 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL.  375 

among  your  provincial  doctors.  A  disagreeable,  foolish 
version  of  the  thing  might  get  abroad." 

"  Have  you  spoken  to  my  wife  on  the  subject  ?"  I 
said,  "  because  she  appears  to  be  peculiarly  sensitive 
about  this  woman ;  she  has  been  a  favorite  maid." 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,"  said  Meunier,  "  I  don't  want 
her  to  know  about  it.  There  are  always  i'nsuperable  dif- 
ficulties with  women  in  these  matters,  and  the  effect  on 
the  supposed  dead  body  may  be  startling.  You  and  I 
will  sit  up  together,  and  be  in  readiness.  When  certain 
symptoms  appear  I  shall  take  you  in,  and  at  the  right 
moment  we  must  manage  to  get  every  one  else  out  of 
the  room." 

I  need  not  give  our  further  conversation  on  the  sub- 
ject. He  entered  very  fully  into  the  details,  and  over- 
came my  repulsion  from  them  by  exciting  in  me  a  min- 
gled awe  and  curiosity  concerning  the  possible  results 
of  his  experiment. 

We  prepared  everything,  and  he  instructed  me  in  my 
part  as  assistant.  He  had  not  told  Bertha  of  his  abso- 
lute conviction  that  Archer  would  not  survive  through 
the  night,  and  endeavored  to  persuade  her  to  leave  the 
patient  and  take  a  night's  rest.  But  she  was  obstinate, 
suspecting  the  fact  that  death  was  at  hand,  and  suppos- 
ing that  he  wished  merely  to  save  her  nerves.  She  re- 
fused to  leave  the  sick-room.  Meunier  and  I  sat  uj)  to- 
gether in  the  library,  he  making  frequent  visits  to  the 
sick-room,  and  returning  with  the  information  that  the 
case  was  taking  precisely  the  course  he  expected.  Once 
he  said  to  me,  "  Can  you  imagine  any  cause  of  ill-feel- 
ing this  woman  has  against  her  mistress,  who  is  so  de- 
voted to  her?" 


37G  THE    LIFTED   VEIL. 

"  I  tliink  there  was  some  misunderstanding  between 
them  before  her  ilhiess.     Why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"Because  I  have  observed  for  tlie  last  five  or  six 
hours — since,  I  fancy,  she  has  lost  all  hope  of  recovery 
— there  seems  a  strange  prompting  in  her  to  say  some- 
thing which  pain  and  failing  strength  forbid  her  to  ut- 
ter;  and  there  is  a  look  of  hideous  meaning  in  her  eyes, 
which  she  turns  continually  towards  her  mistress.  In 
this  disease  the  mind  often  remains  singularly  clear  to 
the  last." 

"  I  am  not  surprised  at  an  indication  of  malevolent 
feeling  in  her,"  I  said.  "  She  is  a  woman  who  has  al- 
ways inspired  me  with  distrust  and  dislike,  but  she  man- 
aged to  insinuate  herself  into  her  mistress's  favor." 

Meunier  remained  silent  after  this,  looking  at  the  fire 
with  an  air  of  absorption,  till  he  went  up-stairs  again. 
He  remained  away  longer  than  usual,  and  on  returning, 
said  to  me,  quietly,  "  Come  now." 

I  followed  him  to  the  chamber  where  death  was  hov- 
ering. The  dark  hangings  of  the  large  bed  made  a  back- 
ground that  gave  a  strong  relief  to  Bertha's  pale  face  as 
I  entered.  She  started  forward  as  she  saw  me  enter, 
and  then  looked  at  Meunier  with  an  expression  of  an- 
gry inquiry ;  but  he  lifted  up  his  hand  as  if  to  impose 
silence,  while  he  fixed  his  glance  on  the  dying  woman 
and  felt  her  pulse.  The  face  was  pinched  and  ghastly, 
a  cold  perspiration  was  on  the  forehead,  and  the  eyelids 
were  lowered  so  as  almost  to  conceal  the  large  dark 
eyes.  After  a  minute  or  two,  Meunier  walked  round  to 
the  other  side  of  the  bed  where  Bertha  stood,  and  with 
his  usual  air  of  gentle  politeness  towards  her  begged  her 
to  leave  the  patient  under  our  care — everything  should 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL.  377 

be  done  for  her — she  was  no  longer  in  a  state  to  be  con- 
scious of  an  affectionate  presence.  Bertha  was  liesitat- 
ing,  apparently  almost  willing  to  believe  his  assurance 
and  to  comply.  She  looked  round  at  the  ghastly  dying 
face,  as  if  to  read  the  confirmation  of  that  assurance, 
when  for  a  moment  the  lowered  eyelids  were  raised 
again,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  eyes  were  looking  towards 
Bertha,  but  blankly.  A  shudder  passed  through  Ber- 
tha's frame,  and  she  returned  to  her  station  near  the  pil- 
low, tacitly  implying  that  she  would  not  leave  the  room. 

The  eyelids  were  lifted  no  more.  Once  I  looked  at 
Bertha  as  she  watched  tlie  face  of  the  dying  one.  She 
wore  a  rich  peignoir,  and  her  blond  hair  was  half  cov- 
ered by  a  lace  cap ;  in  her  attire  she  was,  as  always,  an 
elegant  woman,  fit  to  figure  in  a  picture  of  modern  aris- 
tocratic life ;  but  I  asked  myself  how  that  face  of  hers 
could  ever  have  seemed  to  me  the  face  of  a  woman  born 
of  woman,  with  memories  of  childhood,  capable  of  pain, 
needing  to  be  fondled  ?  The  features  at  that  moment 
looked  so  preternaturally  sharp,  the  eyes  were  so  hard 
and  eager — she  looked  like  a  cruel  immortal,  finding  her 
spiritual  feast  in  the  agonies  of  a  dying  race.  For  across 
those  hard  features  there  came  something  like  a  flash 
when  the  last  hour  had  been  breathed  out,  and  we  all 
felt  that  the  dark  veil  had  completely  fallen. 

What  secret  was  there  between  Bertha  and  this  wom- 
an ?  I  turned  my  eyes  from  her  with  a  horrible  dread 
lest  my  insight  should  return,  and  I  should  be  obliged 
to  see  what  had  been  breeding  about  two  unloving 
women's  hearts.  I  felt  that  Bertha  had  been  watching 
for  the  moment  of  death  as  the  sealing  of  her  secret ;  I 

thanked  Heaven  it  could  remain  sealed  for  me. 
31  R 


378  Tllii    LIFTED    VEIL. 

Meuiiicr  said,  quietly,  "  Gone."  He  then  gave  his  arm 
to  Bertha,  and  she  submitted  to  be  led  out  of  the  room. 

I  suppose  it  was  at  her  order  that  two  female  attend- 
ants came  into  the  room,  and  dismissed  the  younger  one 
who  had  been  present  before.  When  they  entered, 
Mcunier  had  already  opened  the  artery  in  the  long  thin 
neck  that  lay  rigid  on  the  pillow,  and  I  dismissed  them, 
ordering  them  to  remain  at  a  distance  till  we  rang ;  the 
doctor,  I  said,  had  an  operation  to  perform — he  was  not 
sure  about  the  death.  For  the  next  twenty  minutes  I 
forgot  everything  but  Meunier  and  the  experiment  in 
which  he  was  so  absorbed,  thafl  think  his  senses  would 
have  been  closed  against  all  sounds  or  sights  that  had 
no  relation  to  it.  It  was  my  task  at  first  to  keep  up  the 
artificial  respiration  in  the  body  after  the  transfusion 
liad  been  effected,  but  presently  Meunier  relieved  me, 
and  I  could  see  the  wondrous  slow  return  of  life;  the 
breast  began  to  heave,  the  inspirations  became  stronger, 
the  eyelids  quivered,  and  the  soul  seemed  to  have  re- 
turned beneath  them.  The  artificial  respiration  was 
withdrawn ;  still  the  breathing  continued,  and  there 
was  a  movement  of  the  lips. 

Just  then  I  heard  the  handle  of  the  door  moving ;  I 
suppose  Bertha  had  heard  from  the  women  that  they 
had  been  dismissed ;  probably  a  vague  fear  had  arisen 
in  her  mind,  for  she  entered  with  a  look  of  alarm.  She 
came  to  the  foot  of  the  bed  and  gave  a  stifled  cry. 

The  dead  woman's  eyes  were  wide  open,  and  met  hers 
in  full  recognition — the  recognition  of  hate.  AVith  a  sud- 
den strong  effort  the  hand  that  Bertha  had  thought  for- 
ever still  was  pointed  towards  her,  and  the  haggard  face 
moved.     The  gasping,  eager  voice  said  : 


TIIK    LIFTED    VEIL.  379 

"You  mean  to  poison  your  linsband — the  poison  is 
in  the  black  cabinet — I  got  it  for  you  —  you  laughed 
at  me,  and  told  lies  about  me  behind  my  back,  to  make 
me  disgusting — because  you  were  jealous  —  are  you 
sorry — now  ?" 

The  lips  continued  to  murmur,  bnt  the  sounds  were 
no  longer  distinct.  Soon  there  was  no  sound — only  a 
slight  movement:  the  flame  had  leaped  out,  and  was  be- 
ing extinguished  the  faster.  The  wretched  woman's 
heartstrings  had  been  set  to  hatred  and  vengeance;  the 
spirit  of  life  had  swept  the  chords  for  an  instant,  and 
was  gone  again  forever.  Good  God !  This  is  what  it 
is  to  live  again— to  wake  up  with  our  unstilled  thirst 
upon  us,  with  our  unuttered  curses  rising  to  our  lips, 
with  our  muscles  ready  to  act  out  their  half-committed 
sins. 

Bertha  stood  pale  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  quivering 
and  helpless,  despairing  of  devices,  like  a  cunning  animal 
whose  hiding-places  are  surrounded  by  swift-advancing 
flame.  Even  Meunier  looked  paralyzed ;  life  for  that 
moment  ceased  to  be  a  scientific  problem  to  him.  As 
for  me,  this  scene  seemed  of  one  texture  with  the  rest 
of  my  existence :  horror  was  my  familiar,  and  this  new 
revelation  was  only  like  an  old  pain  recurring  with 
new  circumstances. 

Since  then  Bertha  and  I  have  lived  apart — she  in  her 
own  neighborhood,  the  mistress  of  half  our  wealth,  I  as 
a  wanderer  in  foreign  countries,  until  I  came  to  this 
Devonshire  nest  to  die.  Bertha  lives  pitied  and  admired 
— for  what  had  I  against  that  charming  woman,  whom 
every  one  but  myself  could  have  been   happy  with? 


380  THE    LIFTED    VEIL. 

Thero  had  been  no  witness  of  the  scene  in  the  dyiiig-- 
rooin  except  Mennicr,  and  wliile  Mennier  lived  liis  lips 
were  sealed  by  a  promise  to  nie. 

Once  or  twice,  weary  of  wandering,  I  rested  in  a  fa- 
vorite spot,  and  my  heart  went  out  towards  the  men 
and  women  and  children  whose  faces  were  becoming 
familiar  to  me ;  bnt  I  was  driven  away  again  in  terror 
at  the  approach  of  my  old  insight — driven  away  to  live 
continually  with  the  one  Unknown  Presence  revealed 
and  yet  hidden  by  the  moving  curtain  of  the  earth  and 
sky.  Till  at  last  disease  took  hold  of  me  and  forced  me 
to  rest  here — forced  me  to  live  in  dependence  on  my 
servants.  And  then  the  curse  of  insight,  of  my  double 
consciousness,  came  again,  and  has  never  left  me.  I 
know   all   their  narrow  thoughts,  their  feeble  regard, 

their  half-wearied  pity. 

ii  *  *  -»  *  •>5-  -"-  •:<- 

It  is  the  20th  of  September,  1850.  I  know  these  fig- 
ures I  have  just  written,  as  if  they  were  a  long-familiar 
inscription.  I  have  seen  them  on  this  page  in  my  desk 
unnumbered  times,  when  the  scene  of  my  dying  struggle 
has  opened  upon  me.  .  .  . 


mm^ny  of  cAui^iiili 

lUBRAmf 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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